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THE   POEMS 


OF 


ALICE  AND  PHCEBE  GARY 


WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND   NOTES   BY 
KATHARINE   LEE   BATES 

PROFESSOR  IN  WELLESLEY  COLLEGE 


» 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL   &   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1903, 
By  THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO. 


^^3 


PREFATORY   NOTE. 

This  volume  is  made  up  of  material  contained  in  the 
following  original  issues  :  — 

Poems  of  Alice  and  Phcebe  Carey.      Moss  and  Brother,  Phila- 
delphia.    1850.     12mo. 

Lyra  and  Other  Poems.     By  Alice   Carey.     Redfield,    Clinton 
Hall,  New  York.     1852.     12mo. 

Poems   and    Parodies.     By   Phoebe   Carey.      Boston:    Ticknor, 
Reed,  and  Fields.     1854.     12mo. 

Poems.     By  Alice  Cary.      Boston  :    Ticknor  and  Fields.      1855. 
12mo. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  the  name  of  the  authors  was 
spelled  "Carey"  in  the  first  three  of  these  volumes,  but 
with  the  fourth,  as  in  subsequent  issues,  the  "  e "  was 
omitted. 

The  earliest  of  these  books  had  on  its  title-page  the 
motto  — 

"  in  their  delicious  clime 
Mocking  the  birds  with  more  melodious  songs," 

and  carried  the  following  "Advertisement":  — 

"  The  publishers  but  comply  with  the  general  desire 
in  issuing  this  first  edition  of  the  collected  writings  of 
the  '  two  sisters  of  the  West,'  Alice  and  Phcebe  Carey, 
whose  occasional  contributions  to  the  literary  journals 
have  within  a  few  years  secured  for  them  a  rank  among 
the  most  popular  writers  of  their  sex  in  this  country. 
It  is  believed  that  these  leaves,  gathered  into  a  volume, 

rw8O4095 


iv  PREFATORY  NOTE. 

will  more  than  confirm  the  favorable  judgments  awarded 
to  them  upon  their  original  and  separate  appearance." 

This  paragraph,  dated  Philadelphia,  October,  1849,  was 
followed  by  a  "  Notice  of  the  Authors,"  taken  from  Gris- 
wold's  Female  Poets  of  America. 

The  poems  contributed  by  Alice  Gary  to  this  first  vol- 
ume are  ninety-one  in  number.  Lyra  included  seventy- 
two  poems,  of  which  the  author  retained  all  but  fourteen 
in  her  collection  of  1855.  To  these  she  added  a  Mexican 
romance  in  blank  verse,  amounting  to  some  two  thousand 
lines,  and  sixty-five  new  short  poems,  with  twenty-four 
reprints  from  the  volume  of  1850.  Alice  Gary's  poems 
are  placed  here  in  the  original  order  of  the  volumes  of 
1850  and  1855.  The  few  poems  from  Lyra  which  were 
not  included  in  the  volume  of  1855  are.  grouped  directly 
before  The  Maiden  of  Tlascala. 

Phoebe  Gary  contributed  to  the  initial  volume  forty- 
five  poems.  Nine  of  these  she  reprinted,  four  years 
later,  in  Poems  and  Parodies,  bringing  the  full  count  for 
the  volume  up  to  seventy-three.  Her  poems  are  given 
here  in  the  original  order.  In  cases  where  the  sisters 
used  the  same  poems  in  successive  volumes,  this  collec- 
tion holds  to  the  order  of  their  first  appearance,  although 
the  revised  form,  as  foot-notes  point  out,  is  often  adopted. 

These  original  texts  have  been  scrupulously  repro- 
duced. The  punctuation  is  often  at  fault  and,  in  other 
respects,  the  volumes  show  signs  of  careless  proof-reading. 
A  copy  of  the  1850  volume  in  the  Boston  Public  Library 
has  certain  manuscript  emendations,  which  suggest,  by 
their  character,  an  author's  corrections.  The  handwrit- 
ing is  not  that  of  Alice  Gary,  but  shows  some  resem- 
blance to  Phoebe's  script,  so  far  as  this  can  be  determined 
from  a  single  signature.  These  emendations  are  retained 
in  foot-notes. 


CONTENTS. 

POEMS   BY  ALICE   GARY. 
From  Volume  of  1850. 

PAGE 

Keats .        7 

Hannibal's  Lament  for  his  Brother 10 

The  Wreck 12 

I  Would  Tell  Him  That  I  Love  Him 15 

The  Spectre  Woman .16 

The  Past  and  Present .17 

Death  of  Cleopatra 18 

Palestine 20 

Napoleon  at  the  Death  of  Duroc 21 

The  Orphan  Girl 22 

The  Homeless 23 

A  Norland  Ballad .        .24 

Morna .27 

Alda 28 

The  Pirate 29 

The  Orphan's  Dream  of  Love  ......       31 

The  Blue  Scarf         .........       33 

The  Stranger's  Epitaph 35 

The  Betrayal 37 

The  Children 38 

To  Mary 40 

The  Lover's  Vision 41 

Melody 42 

To  Lucy 43 

An  Evening  Tale 44 

Sailor's  Song 46 

The  Old  Homestead         .         .         .         .         .         .         .        .47 

Lights  of  Genius 49 

I  Know  Thou  Art  Free 49 

A  Good  Man 50 

Hymn  of  the  True  Man 61 

V 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Hymn  of  the  Student  of  Nature 52 

Life's  Angels 53 

The  Pilgrim 54 

Pitied  Love      . 57 

Alone  by  the  Tomb 59 

Two  Visions 60 

LostDillie 62 

Pictures  of  Memory 63 

The  Two  Missionaries .64 

Leila 65 

The  Handmaid 66 

The  Poor 67 

Heaven  on  Earth 68 

Far  Away         . 69 

The  Better  Land 70 

First  Love 70 

The  Mill-maid 71 

Love 72 

Death       . 73 

The  Charmed  Bird 73 

Pride .  74 

Missive 74 

One  Departed 75 

Musings  by  Three  Graves 76 

To  the  Evening  Zephyr 79 

Answer 80 

Eesponse 81 

The  Sailor's  Story 82 

A  Lock  of  Hair 85 

Visions  of  Light 86 

A  Legend  of  St.  Mary's 88 

The  Novice  of  St.  Mary's 90 

Helva 91 

The  Time  to  Be 92 

Eloquence 93 

To  Elma 95 

To  Flora 96 

Myrrha 97 

To  Myrhha 97 

To  the  Spirit  of  Truth 98 

To 99 

The  Two  Lovers 100 

Abjuration 101 

Old  Stories 103 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGK 

Spectres 104 

Lucifer 105 

Be  Active 106 

Death's  Ferryman 107 

Watching         .        .         .        . 108 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child 109 

Cradle  Song 110 

Seko Ill 

The  Deserted  Fylgia 112 

Music 113 

Orphan's  Song       • 114 

Bridges 115 

Book  of  Light ,         .  115 

The  Child  of  Nature 116 

Where  Rest  the  Dead  ? 117 

From  Volume  of  1855. 

Lyra :   A  Lament 118 

In  Illness 120 

Hymn  to  the  Night 122 

The  Minstrel 125 

Hyala 127 

Grand-dame  and  Child 129 

Agatha  to  Harold    .........  131 

Legend  of  Seville 133 

To  the  Winds 135 

Annuaries 136 

Lost  Light 147 

Paul 149 

To  the  Spirit  of  Gladness 150 

The  Tryst 151 

Jessie  Carrol 153 

Hyperion          .         . 160 

The  Daughter 162 

Annie  Clayville 164 

•  Yesternight 166 

Winter 167 

Wood  Nymphs 170 

October 172 

The  New  Year 173 

In  the  Sugar  Camp 177 

Rhyme  of  My  Playmate 178 

The  Coming  of  Night 180 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PA6B 

Fire  Pictures 181 

The  Wood  Lily 182 

To  the  Spirit  of  Song 183 

A  Christmas  Story 184 

The  Haunted  House 186 

The  Murderess 187 

Content 188 

Of  One  Asleep 189 

Dissatisfied 190 

Dying  Song 191 

Lily  Lee •  .         .         .192 

Miracles 193 

Tokens 194 

To  the  Hopeful 195 

Going  to  Sleep 196 

The  Dying  Mother 197 

The  Lullaby .198 

Glenly  Moor 199 

Rosemary  Hill          . 200 

My  Brother 202 

Nellie,  Watching 203 

Rosalie 206 

Justified 207 

Isidore's  Dream 209 

Burns       .        .        .         .  » 210 

The  Emigrants 211 

Rinaldo 212 

Juliet  to  Romeo       .         .        .     ' 213 

Of  Home .        .         , 214 

My  Friend 215 

Parting  and  Meeting        .        „ 216 

A  Ruin ,        ...  218 

The  Poet 219 

Aspirations 220 

Changed 222 

Weariness 223 

Edith  to  Harold 224 

Parting  with  a  Poet          .        .        ...         .        .  •       .         .  225 

The  Reclaiming  of  the  Angel 226 

Adelyn 227 

Madela 228 

The  Broken  Household 229 

Parting  Song 230 

Tbe  Bridal  of  Woe  ,        ,        , 232 


CONTENTS.  ix 


PAGE 

A  Dream  Untold 233 

The  Convict 235 

Sick  and  in  Prison 236 

Longings 237 

Remorse 239 

Despair 240 

Respite 241 

Of  One  Dying 242 

May  Verses 243 

Wurtha 244 

The  Shepherdess 245 

Washing  the  Sheep 246 

George  Burroughs 247 

Luther 248 

The  Evening  Walk 249 

My  Mother 251 

Last  Song 252 

Weariness 253 

Perversity 253 

When  My  Love  and  I  Lie  Dead 254 

Hidden  Light 255 

Devotion 255 

Prophecy 256 

Light  and  Love 257 

A  Retrospect 257 

The  Homeless 258 

A  Prayer 259 

Kindness 260 

Enjoy 260 

April 261 

At  the  Grave 262 

Mulberry  Hill 262 

A  Rustic  Plaint 263 

The  Spirit-haunted 264 

Ulalie 265 

On  the  Picture  of  a  Magdalen 266 

Death  Song 267 

Young  Love 267 

The  Morning 268 

Awakening 269 

Times 269 

The  Prophecy 270 

Worship 271 

Only  Two 272 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Nobility 273 

Doomed 274 

The  Way 274 

Thisbe 275 

Safe 276 

Adelied    . 276 

What  an  Angel  Said 277 

My  Playmate 278 

The  Workers 278 

Looking  Back 279 

Hymn 280 

Poems  from  "Lyra"  not  included  in  Volume  op  1855. 

Leilia 280 

Milna  Grey      . 281 

The  Betrothed 284 

The  Good  Angel 285 

My  Friend  and  I 286 

Out  by  the  Waters 287 

Love's  Chapel 288 

Fallen  Genius 289 

Dying 290 

Harriet 291 

Falmouth  Hall 292 

Song 294 

Live  and  Help  Live 294 

To  Elmina 295 

Homesick 296 

The  Maiden  of  Tlascala 296 


CONTENTS.  XI 

POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  GARY. 
From  Volume  of  1850. 

PAGE 

A  Story 349 

The  Lovers 354 

Our  Homestead 356 

The  Followers  of  Christ  .         .  ' 357 

Sonnets 361 

Sympathy 362 

Memories          ..........  364 

Moralizings      ..........  365 

Dreaming  of  Heaven 367 

Morning  Thoughts 367 

Resolves 368 

The  Mariner's  Bride 369 

The  Prisoner's  Last  Night 370 

Song  of  the  Heart 371 

Man  Believes  the  Strong 372 

The  Christian  Woman 373 

The  Homesick  Peasant 375 

Homes  for  All 376 

Harvest  Gathering 377 

Life  is  Not  Vanity 378 

Prayer 379 

Morning 380 

Burial  Hymn •     .  381 

Song  of  the  Reformed 382 

The  Cold  Water  Army 383 

Coming  Home 384 

The  Reefer 385 

A  Time  to  Die 386 

Death  Scene 387 

The  Place  of  Graves 388 

Parting  and  Meeting 388 

Death  of  a  Friend 389 

Love  at  the  Grave    .        .                 390 

Strength  of  Sin 392 

The  Women  at  the  Sepulchre 393 

Melody 394 

Changes 394 

Fears 396 


xu  CONTENTS. 

PA01 

The  Watcher 397 

Chalmers 398 

Song 399 

The  Confession 400 

The  Ills  of  Life 401 

The  Bride 402 

Remembrance 404 

From  Poems  and  Parodies. 

Poems. 

Entering  Heaven     . 405 

Our  Baby         .         .        .         . .407 

The  Outcast 408 

The  Life  of  Trial 409 

Our  Friend 410 

The  Convict's  Child         .        ; 411 

At  the  Water's  Edge 412 

Dead 413 

The  Watcher's  Story 414 

Dreams 418 

Prophecies 419 

The  Poem 420 

To  One  Who  Sang  of  Love 421 

Archie 422 

Maiden  Fears 423 

The  Unguarded  Moment 424 

Nelly 425 

Burning  the  Letters 426 

A  Lament 427 

The  Lullaby 428 

Left  Alone 430 

The  Retrospect 431 

One  Shall  Be  Taken 431 

The  Brothers 432 

Remorse 433 

Prophecy .  434 

The  Dreamer 435 

The  Consecration .         .  437 

Drawing  Water 438 

Solemnity  of  Life 438 

My  Blessings 440 

Sabbath  Thoughts .441 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

PAGE 

Nearer  Home 442 

Hymn 443 

Sowing  Seed 443 

The  Baptism 444 

The  Hosts  of  Thought 446 

The  Book  of  Poems 449 

To  Frank 450 

Dawn 451 

Parodies. 

Martha  Hopkins 452 

Worser  Moments 455 

The  Annoyer 456 

Samuel  Brown 458 

Granny's  House 459 

The  Day  is  Done .        .         .463 

John  Thompson's  Daughter 464 

Girls  Were  Made  to  Mourn 466 

To  Inez 468 

To  Mary 469 

The  Change 470 

He  Never  Wrote  Again    .        . 472 

The  Soiree        .         . 473 

The  City  Life 474 

The  Marriage  of  Sir  John  Smith 475 

Ballad  of  the  Canal .476 

I  Remember,  I  Remember 477 

Jacob 478 

The  Wife 479 

A  Psalm  of  Life 479 

There  's  a  Bower  of  Bean-vines 480 

AMien  Lovely  Woman      ........  481 

Shakespearian  Readings 481 


ALICE   AND   PHCEBE   GARY. 

These  authors  fill  a  place  in  our  literary  history  out  of 
proportion  to  their  actual  achievement.  The  poetry  of 
the  West  began  in  the  Ohio  valley,  in  that  old  brown 
homestead,  with  cherry  branches  brushing  the  window- 
panes  and  a  sweetbrier  climbing  to  the  eaves,  where 
Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary  passed  their  earlier  girlhood. 
As  the  pioneer  singers  of  the  West,  as  lyrists  praised  by 
Poe  and  Whittier,  as  women  of  letters  who  lived  by  their 
pens  and  gathered  about  them  the  most  notable  society 
of  New  York  a  generation  since,  they  have  peculiar 
claims  upon  remembrance  and  esteem.  Better  artists  of 
a  later  date  have  won  less  recognition.  The  story  of  the 
Gary  sisters  has  become  a  part  of  our  literary  tradition. 

The  Gary  family  claimed  descent  from  Sir  Robert  Gary, 
who,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  V,  accepted  on  behalf  of 
English  valor  the  challenge  of  a  haughty  knight-errant 
of  Aragon  and  vanquished  the  boaster  at  a  public  tilt 
in  London.  Sir  Robert's  father  had  lost,  through  his 
loyalty  to  Richard  II,  the  ancestral  estates,  but  the 
young  king,  delighted  at  this  feat,  restored  a  portion  of 
them  to  the  champion,  and  authorized  him  and  his  pos- 
terity to  wear  thenceforth  the  arms  of  the  humbled 
knight  of  Aragon.  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary,  especially 
the  latter,  were  proud  of  this  doughty  ancestor.  When 
they  had  established  their  New  York  home,  the  coat  of 
arms  was  framed  for  their  library  wall,  and  Phoebe  had 
it  engraved  on  a  seal  ring  which  she  wore  until  her 
death. 

The  American  immigrant  was  one  John  Gary,  who 
taught  the  first  Latin  class  in  Plymouth  colony.  His 
son  Joseph  moved  to  Gonnecticut,  where  the  family 
remained  for  several  generations,  well-to-do,  public-spir- 
ited, and  pious.  There  were  Yale  graduates  among  them 
and  men  of  professional  eminence.  The  original  settler 
in  Ohio  was  Ghristopher  Gary,  to  whom  a  grant  of  land 

XV 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

there,  in  Hamilton  County,  had  been  accorded  in  recom- 
pense for  his  services  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  It  was 
one  hundred  years  ago,  in  1802,  that  the  long  journey  to 
the  Western  wilderness  was  undertaken.  The  adventures 
of  emigrant  wagon  and  flatboat  were  probably  more 
keenly  enjoyed  by  Robert  Gary,  then  a  lad  of  fifteen, 
than  by  his  father,  who  knew  himself  to  be  facing  hard- 
ship and  danger  and,  at  the  best,  a  life  of  rugged  toil. 

The  land  on  which  "  Uncle  Christopher,"  as  the  neigh- 
borhood came  to  call  the  old  soldier,  finally  set  up  his 
household  gods  was  on  the  Hamilton  road,  about  eight 
miles  north  of  that  thriving  settlement,  protected  from 
the  Indians  by  Fort  Washington,  which  has  grown  into 
the  city  of  Cincinnati.  Robert  Cary,  after  bearing  arms, 
as  was  due  to  his  name,  in  the  War  of  1812,  married  and 
went  into  debt  for  a  quarter  section  of  his  father's  land. 
It  took  years  of  laborious  farming  and  frugal  housekeep- 
ing to  make  the  soil  his  own,  but  meanwhile  there  was 
plenty  of  happiness  in  the  little  brown  homestead  which 
he  had  built  for  his  bride.  In  this  his  nine  children 
were  born,  soon  overflowing,  for  childish  frolic,  into  the 
ampler  barn,  where  doves  and  swallows  were  as  much  at 
home  as  they.  The  poems  of  the  Cary  sisters  abound  in 
fond  memories  of  their  childhood  in  Clovernook,  —  the 
orchard  trees,  in  whose  tops  they  had  seen  their  brothers 
rocking;  the  mossy-stoned  well,  with  its  rude  sweep,  set 
up  by  their  father's  hand ;  the  broad  hearth,  where  all  the 
family  gathered  at  evening,  tranquillized  by  the  mother's 
voice  and  smile.  Outside  were  woods  and  corn-fields, 
grazing  cattle,  and  "  meadows  full  of  songs." 

The  joyous  years  were,  after  all,  these  years  of  strug- 
gle toward  prosperity.  It  came  at  last,  but  brought 
deep  shadows  with  it.  By  the  autumn  of  1832  the  great 
result  of  eighteen  years  of  unremitting  industry  and 
economy  was  attained.  The  farm  was  paid  for,  and  a 
more  spacious  house,  built  of  brick  and  well  porticoed, 
stood  ready  for  occupancy.  Triumphantly  the  family 
removed  to  their  new  roof -tree,  —  the  father  and  mother 
careworn  and  workworn,  but  with  smiles  for  the  merry 
troop  of  children  that  reached  from  grown  daughters  to 
mere  toddlers.  Alice,  born  April  26,  1820,  came  fourth 
in  the  list.  Of  her  three  elder  sisters,  Rowena,  Susan, 
and  Rhoda,  the  last  was  her  closest  friend  and  associate. 


INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

A  brother,  Asa,  intervened  between  Alice  and  Phoebe, 
whose  birthday  was  September  4, 1824.  Phoebe's  intimate 
in  the  group  was  the  second  boy,  Warren,  two  years  her 
junior.  The  pet  of  the  household  was  the  blue-eyed  and 
golden-haired  Lucy,  three  years  old,  the  only  one  of  the 
children  who  resembled  their  beautiful  mother.  Elmina 
was  the  baby.  An  unbroken  band,  the  family  entered 
into  their  new  home  with  bright  anticipations  of  better 
days.  In  a  little  more  than  a  year  Rhoda  died,  and  a 
month  later  little  Lucy.  The  mother  followed,  and  soon 
a  stepmother  of  uncongenial  temper  made  the  new  house 
unhomelike  and  enhanced  the  children's  sense  of  loss 
and  desolation.  Alice  and  Phoebe  especially,  with  their 
craving  for  books  and  their  awakening  impulse  toward 
song,  suffered  from  the  hard,  narrow,  utilitarian  rule  of 
this  stranger,  to  whom  housework  was  the  whole  duty  of 
woman.  Their  own  mother,  after  her  busiest  and  weari- 
est days,  had  been  wont  to  take  time  from  the  night  for 
reading,  but  her  successor  would  let  no  candles  be  wasted 
on  such  folly,  and  it  was  by  light  of  "  a  saucer  of  lard 
with  a  bit  of  rag  for  wick  "  that  Alice  and  Phoebe  made 
acquaintance  with  the  new  English  and  American  poets. 
Two  years  before  her  death  Alice  Gary,  as  quoted  by 
Mary  Clemmer  Ames,  thus  summarized  her  girlhood: 

"  I  don't  like  to  think  how  much  we  are  robbed  of  in 
this  world  by  just  the  conditions  of  our  life.  How  much 
better  work  I  should  have  done,  how  much  more  success 
I  might  have  won,  if  I  had  had  a  better  opportunity  in 
my  youth.  But,  for  the  first  fourteen  years  of  my  life, 
it  seemed  as  if  there  was  actually  nothing  in  existence 
but  work.  The  whole  family  struggle  was  just  for  the 
right  to  live  free  from  the  curse  of  debt.  My  father 
worked  early  and  late ;  my  mother's  work  was  never 
done.  The  mother  of  nine  children,  with  no  other  help 
than  that  of  their  little  hands,  I  shall  always  feel  that 
she  was  taxed  far  beyond  her  strength,  and  died  before 
her  time.  I  have  never  felt  myself  to  be  the  same  that 
I  was  before  Ehoda's  death.  Phoda  and  I  pined  for 
beauty;  but  there  was  no  beauty  about  our  homely 
house  but  that  which  nature  gave  us.  We  hungered 
and  thirsted  for  knowledge ;  but  there  were  not  a  dozen 
books  on  our  family  shelf,  not  a  library  within  our  reach. 
There  was  little  time  to  study,  and  had  there  been  more, 


xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

there  was  no  chance  to  learn  but  in  the  district  school- 
house,  down  the  road.  I  never  went  to  any  other  —  not 
very  much  to  that.  It  has  been  a  long  struggle.  Now 
that  I  can  afford  to  gather  a  few  beautiful  things  about 
me,  it  is  too  late." 

The  poetic  feeling  of  the  Gary  sisters  seems  to  have 
been  an  inheritance  from  their  father.  Their  mother's 
mind  turned  rather  to  the  ethical  questions  of  the  day, 
but  the  dreaming,  nature-loving  temperament  belonged 
to  Robert  Gary.  The  school  readers  and  copy-books  of 
Alice  and  Phoebe  showed,  even  in  childhood,  crude  at- 
tempts at  verse.  Alice,  four  years  the  elder,  was  natu- 
rally the  first  adventurer.  The  swiftly  successive  deaths 
of  those  three  members  of  the  household  who  were  pecul- 
iarly dear  to  her,  occurring  as  these  did  in  the  most 
sensitive  period  of  her  girlhood,  stamped  her  early  songs 
with  a  monotonous  melancholy.  This  strain  of  mourn- 
ful sentiment  was  unfortunately  emphasized  by  an  un- 
happy love  affair.  She  yielded  her  whole  heart  to  a 
man  who  never  came  back  to  claim  it.  She  trusted  and 
waited,  until  she  chanced,  in  a  newspaper,  upon  the  an- 
nouncement of  his  marriage.  This  blow  was  the  final 
impelling  force  that  drove  her  out  from  the  rustic  seclu- 
sion of  Clovernook  to  make  a  literary  career  for  herself 
in  New  York  City. 

It  was  in  1850  that  Alice  Gary  made  her  daring  plunge. 
During  the  fifteen  years  that  had  elapsed  since  the  death 
of  her  mother,  she  had  learned  to  versify  so  effectively 
that  the  journals  of  her  neighboring  city,  Gincinnati,  of 
the  Universalist  church,  in  whose  faith  she  had  been 
bred,  and  even  such  eastern  magazines  as  the  Boston 
Ladies^  Repository  and  Graham^s  of  New  York  printed 
her  work.  Phcebe  followed  her  lead,  and  Griswold  rep- 
resented both  the  sisters  in  his  "  Female  Poets  of  Amer- 
ica." In  reviewing  this  anthology,  Poe  gave  the  palm 
to  Alice  Gary's  ''Pictures  of  Memory."  "In  all  the 
higher  elements  of  poetry,"  he  wrote,  "  in  true  imagina- 
tion, in  the  power  of  exciting  the  only  real  poetical  effect 
—  elevation  of  the  soul  in  contradistinction  from  mere 
excitement  of  the  intellect  or  heart,  —  the  poem  in  ques- 
tion is  the  noblest  in  the  book." 

Meanwhile  private  words  of  appreciation  and  encour- 
agement were  seeking  the  Ohio  singers  out.     Whittier 


INTRODUCTION.  xix 

wrote  to  them.  Horace  Greeley,  then  editor  of  the  Neio 
York  Tribune,  went  out  from  Cincinnati  to  see  them  in 
their  home.  And,  in  1848,  Griswold  approached  them 
with  a  plan  for  securing  the  publication  of  a  joint  vol- 
ume of  their  poems.  Out  of  the  resultant  correspondence 
have  been  preserved  three  letters  from  Alice  Gary : 

July  3,  1848. 

Mr.  Griswold  :  It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  com- 
ply with  the  request  of  your  very  obliging  letter  by  plac- 
ing at  your  disposal  the  poems  in  your  possession.  I 
have  also  taken  the  liberty  of  sending  you  some  other 
specimens,  which,  to  quote  Willis,  I  prefer  to  remember 
as  my  own.  Not  that  I  wish  to  press  for  the  admission 
of  a  larger  number,  or  dictate  to  your  better  judgment,  but 
that  you  may  have  an  ampler  field  from  which  to  select. 
Should  you  elsewhere  meet  with  anything  from  either  of 
our  pens  in  time  to  serve  you,  it  will  be  at  your  disposal. 

With  regard  to  the  prefatory  notes,  I  have  only  to 
say  that  we  are  sisters,  and  were  born  in  a  pretty  and 
secluded  district  in  the  vicinity  of  Cincinnati,  where  we 
still  live. 

Our  educational  attainments  are  limited  to  the  meagre 
and  iufrequent  advantages  of  an  obscure  district  school, 
whence  we  w^ere  removed  altogether  at  a  very  early  age. 
With  nothing  from  which  to  draw  but  our  own  hearts, 
subjected  to  the  toils  and  privations  of  poverty  and 
orphanage,  with  neither  books  nor  literary  friends  to  en- 
courage our  predilections,  we  have  been,  and  still  are, 
humble  worshippers  of  the  glorious  Temple  of  Song. 

We  write  with  great  facility,  often  producing  two  or 
three  poems  a  day,  and  never  elaborate. 

Very  respectfully, 

Alice  Gary. 

P.S.  —  Permit  me  to  add  a  word  with  reference  to 
publishing  our  poems  in  a  collected  form.  We  have  some 
three  hundred  and  fifty,  exclusive  of  our  early  produc- 
tions, which  those  in  your  possession,  as  to  length  and 
ability,  fairly  represent. 

I  think  they  would  make  a  readable  book,  and  our  cir- 
cumstances urge  their  publication  if  it  would  be  in  the 
least  to  our  pecuniary  advantage. 

A.  C. 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

Jan.  26,  1849. 

Mr.  Grtswold  :  I  can  never  sufficiently  thank  you 
for  the  kind  interest  you  take  in  myself  and  sister.  .  .  . 

We  think  of  visiting  the  Eastern  cities  next  summer, 
when  I  hope  for  the  happiness  of  seeing  you  —  in  the  mean- 
time, I  shall  not  fail  to  exert  myself  to  more  fully  merit 
the  very  flattering  opinion  you  are  pleased  to  express  of  me. 

I  am  very  happy  to  avail  myself  of  your  obliging  offer 
to  secure  for  us  a  more  available  disposal  of  our  poems. 
Any  arrangements  you  may  find  it  convenient  to  make 
will  be  gratefully  endorsed  by  us  —  but  I  must  protest 
ao-ainst  your  giving  yourself  any  trouble  on  our  account. 

We  have  until  quite  recently  written  gratuitously,  but 
are  now  receiving  a  trifling  remuneration  for  our  corre- 
spondence—  to  give  you  an  idea  of  its  amount,  I  will 
state  that  we  write  alternately  for  the  National  Era  every 
week  for  two  dollars  an  article !  We  have  several  other 
engagements  on  terms  a  trifle  in  advance  of  those  stated, 
and  as  we  are  dependent  on  our  poems  almost  exclusively, 
it  is  advisable  that  we  make  the  best  disposal  of  them. 

Be  assured  that  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  number 
you  among  my  correspondents,  and  shall  gratefully  and 
proudly  receive  any  communication  with  which  you  may 
be  pleased  to  favor  me,  but  business  must  plead  my 
excuse  for  so  early  an  intrusion  upon  your  notice.  It 
would  certainly  be  a  gratification  to  me  to  have  our 
poems,  or  rather  a  selection  from  them,  issued  by  one 
of  our  Eastern  publishers,  and  if  you  can  dispose  of  the 
copyright  so  as  to  ensure  you  a  compensation  for  editing 
the  work,  and  will  consent  to  edit  it,  we  shall  be  content 
to  receive  whatever  more  there  may  be,  or  if  nothing 
more,  to  receive  nothing.  Should  you  be  able  to  make 
such  arrangements,  we  will  immediately  set  about  the 
preparation  of  the  volume.  We  have  selected  "  Wood- 
notes"  as  a  title  —  what  do  you  think  of  it?  Any  sug- 
gestions you  may  make  with  reference  to  the  proposed 
volume  will  be  gratefully  received. 

I    cannot   close   without   again    offering   my    grateful 
acknowledgments    for   the  kind  favor  with  which   you 
have  been  pleased  to  honor  me,  and  expressing  the  hope 
you  may  be  speedily  restored  to  perfect  health, 
I  am,  with  sincere  regard. 

Very  truly  yours,      ^^^^^  ^^^^_ 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

March  25,  1850. 

Dear  Sir  :  .  .  .  "Well,  how  could  I  hope  that  it  would 
be  otherwise?  I  am  but  a  simple  and  uncultured  girl, 
and  am  perhaps  best  off  in  the  shadow  of  my  native  hills. 
Again  I  beg  your  forgiveness,  and  promise  that  I  will 
not  listen  to  my  heart  again — not  in  this  letter,  certainly. 

I  half  envy  you  the  privilege  of  going  abroad.  I  have 
sometimes  hoped  to  see  something  of  the  great  world 
beside  in  dreams,  but  I  never  shall.  You  must  not,  my 
dear  Mr.  Griswold,  flatter  yourself  that  I  look  any  better 
than  my  daguerreotype — it  is  very  correct,  the  expres- 
sion not  perfectly  so,  perhaps,  as  I  changed  countenance 
a  little  during  the  sitting.  I  hardly  know  how  to 
describe  myself,  and  am  half  inclined  to  cut  from  the 
letter  of  a  friend  a  description  which  he  tells  me  he  has 
just  been  giving  Whittier  of  me,  for,  strange  to  say,  he 
has  not  flattered  me.  ...  I  am  five  feet,  two  inches  in 
height,  not  heavy,  and  not  very  thin,  don't  know  how 
much  I  weigh,  have  black  eyes,  and  hair  darkly  brown, 
am  a  brunette,  and  decidedly  plain,  having  seen  my 
twenty-ninth  birthday.  ...  I  am  sometimes  passion- 
ately fervent  in  piety,  and  sometimes  rebellious  as  the 
fallen.  I  love  with  deepest  intensity,  but  do  not  hate, 
those  I  do  not  like  I  am  indifferent  to.  .  .  .  Mr.  AYhit- 
tier  kindly  proffers  his  aid  and  assistance  in  the  getting 
up  of  the  proposed  work  —  advises  me  not  to  be  in 
a  hurry,  which  I  shall  not  be ;  strongly  recommends 
Ticknor.  .  .   . 

And  so  you  do  not  like  my  rhymeless  efforts.  The 
two  pieces  you  speak  of  are  in  my  own  opinion  among 
the  best  things  I  have  written,  as  also  in  the  opinion  of 
some  whose  opinion  I  value  highly.  I  am  glad  you  have 
told  me  what  you  think.  I  agree  with  you  that  lyrical 
composition  is  my  forte,  if  I  have  any,  but  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  let  my  thought  flow  as  it  will.  Among  literary 
artists  I  have  no  place.  Mr.  Whittier  has  just  favored 
me  with  some  very  good  advice ;  I  hope  I  shall  profit  by 
it.  He  extends  us  a  cordial  invitation  to  visit  himself  and 
sister  at  Amesbury,  which  I  hope  to  be  able  to  accept. 

I  am  sensitive  to  a  painful  degree,  and  have  never 
had  a  correspondent,  save  yourself,  of  whom  I  could  say 
they  have  written  nothing  I  could  wish  unwritten.  .  .  . 

You  think  Phoebe  more  grave  than  I.     She  is  less  so. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

Her  daguerreotype  does  not  do  her  justice.  Her  coun- 
tenance in  conversation  is  almost  mirthful.  She  has 
dimples  which  show  themselves  constantly,  is  very  sar- 
castic (though  she  denies  it),  and  enjoys  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  a  wit.  She  is  less  [sic]  and  younger 
than  I.  .  .  . 

Ever  sincerely  yours, 

Alice  Gary. 

The  temperament  of  Phoebe  Gary  was  blithe  and 
sturdy,  with  a  vein  of  practical  good  sense.  She  was 
still  a  child  when  the  family  afflictions  came,  and  thus 
suffered  no  such  deep  and  lasting  grief  as  did  the  impres- 
sionable girl  of  fifteen.  Phoebe,  too,  had  escaped  the 
pangs  of  love  betrayed.  Her  attitude  toward  Dan  Gupid, 
indeed,  was  from  the  first  almost  to  the  last  saucy  and 
defiant.  She  made  fun  of  romance,  she  derided  in  verse 
and  in  speech  the  lordly  ways  of  husbands,  and  she 
avowed  in  middle  life  that  she  had  "never  loved  any 
man  well  enough  to  lie  awake  half  an  hour  to  be  miser- 
able about  him."  When  asked  by  some  impertinent  if 
she  had  ever  been  disappointed  in  her  affections,  Phoebe 
replied  promptly,  "  ISTo ;  but  a  great  many  of  my  married 
friends  have."  Her  epistolary  comment  at  the  con- 
cluded arrangement  for  that  first  volume  of  poems  is 
characteristic : 

''Alice  and  I  have  been  very  busy  collecting  and  re- 
vising all  our  published  poems,  to  send  to  New  York. 
Eev.  R.  W.  Griswold,  quite  a  noted  author,  is  going  to 
publish  them  for  us  this  summer,  and  we  are  to  receive 
for  them  a  hundred  dollars.  I  don't  know  as  I  feel  better 
or  worse,  as  I  don't  think  it  will  do  us  much  good,  or 
any  one  else." 

Not  even  Griswold's  faith  in  the  Gary  sisters  carried 
him  to  the  length  of  publishing  their  full  count  of  three 
hundred  and  fifty  poems.  Of  the  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
six  that  he  selected,  two-thirds  were  by  Alice.  About 
thirty  of  these  are  on  themes  connected  with  death — 
pictures  of  dying-beds,  meditations  in  graveyards,  mourn- 
ing for  the  lost,  longing  to  die.  The  best  that  can  be  said 
for  them  is  that  they  are  sincere,  springing  from  actual 
experience  of  bereavement.  The  sentiment  may  be  weak  ; 
it  is  not  false.     "The  Orphan  Girl,"  "The  Homeless," 


INTRODUCTION.  xxiii 

is  Alice  Cary  herself.  The  lines  "  To  Lucy "  directly 
refer  to  her  little  sister  of  that  name.  The  "  Myrrha " 
elegies  commemorate  Rhoda.  Of  the  remaining  poems, 
nearly  half  have  to  do  with  the  fruitless  Avaiting,  the 
blighted  hopes,  and  broken  hearts  of  maidens  abandoned 
by  their  lovers.  The  autobiographic  tone  is  heard 
through  them  all,  although  the  circumstances  are  varied. 
Sometimes  the  forsaken  girl  lives  on  "  through  long 
weary  years  "  alone  ;  sometimes 

"  With  a  cheek  grown  thinner,  whiter, 

And  the  dark  locks  put  away 
From  a  brow  of  patient  beauty, 

Dwells  the  maiden  of  my  lay  — 
Dwells  she  where  the  peaceful  shadow 

Of  her  native  hills  is  thrown. 
Binding  up  the  wounds  of  others 

All  the  better  for  her  own." 

Usually,  however,  the  unrewarded  watcher  droops  and 
dies,  and  it  may  chance  that  the  troth-breaker, 

"the  haughty  child  of  pride  — 
The  angel  of  delusive  dreams," 

comes  to  weep  above  her  deathbed  or  her  burial-mound. 
Here,  too,  the  writer  has  dipped  the  pen  in  her  own 
heart.  The  events  of  her  youth  had  been  the  death 
of  mother  and  sisters,  the  desertion  of  her  worldly 
minded  wooer.  How  little  else  had  come  into  that  se- 
questered life  the  narrow  range  of  this  first  volume 
testifies.  Religious  sensibility  is  present  everywhere, 
and  some  half  dozen  poems  are  the  direct  expression  of 
Christian  devotion.  As  many  more  champion  philan- 
thropic and  ethical  movements  of  the  time.  Other 
themes  are  drawn  from  the  most  striking  figures  of  his- 
tory, —  Hannibal,  Cleopatra,  Napoleon.  A  few  pseudo- 
romantic  ballads  of  feeble  construction,  a  few  personal 
addresses  to  friends,  two  or  three  songs  for  children, 
"Pictures  of  Memory,"  and  the  first  draft  of  "The  Old 
Homestead"  nearly  complete  the  reckoning. 

There  is  something  very  touching  in  the  intellectual 
and  artistic  poverty  of  the  work.  The  sentences  are 
often  ungrammatical,  and  the  vocabulary  is  sometimes 
inexact.  The  Xorse  king,  for  example,  strides  over  the 
lintel,  supposing  it  to  be  the  threshold.     The  volume  is 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

a  confusion  of  rhythmic  echoes,  —  of  Byron,  Bulwer, 
Mrs.  Hemans.  "  The  Two  Missionaries "  sets  one  re- 
peating 

"  By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain." 

"  Seko  "  owes  its  existence  to  "  The  Skeleton  in  Armor." 
The  sentiment  and  even  the  diction  of  Longfellow  are 
sometimes  all  but  appropriated,  as  in  "  Visions  of  Light," 
"  Old  Stories,"  and  that  stanza  of  "  Eloquence "  which 
tells  of 

"  muffled  footsteps 
In  the  corridors  of  crime." 

The  author  acknowledges  in  a  footnote  her  "  indebted- 
ness to  Coleridge  for  one  or  two  passages"  in  "Pitied 
Love,"  but  there  is  no  such  owning  up  to  her  close  imi- 
tation, in  "  Musings  by  Three  Graves,"  of  Gray's  "  Elegy 
in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  though  she  has  taken  over 
his  stanza,  situation,  mood,  epithets,  the  very  twilight 
shadow  and  sombre  cadence  of  his  monody.  A  wavering 
Shelley  note,  mingled  with  a  hint  of  Keats,  is  manifest 
in  "  Two  Visions,"  but  the  most  extraordinary  exhibition 
of  innocent  plagiarism  may  be  found  in  the  initial  poem 
of  the  volume.  This  lament  on  the  death  of  Keats  is  a 
dexterously  woven  web  dyed  through  and  through  in  the 
rich  colors  of  the  "  Adonais  "  and  "  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." 
Here  and  there  the  poetic  "  shreds  and  patches "  are 
clearly  discernible.  The  ode  "  To  a  Skylark "  yielded 
the  "embodied  joy"  and  "sunken  sun."  The  opening 
line  of  "  Hyperion  "  is  altered  from 

"  Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale  " 
to 

"  Deep  in  the  shady  cincture  of  the  vale." 

"  Thanatopsis  "  gave  suggestion,  by 

"  Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste  " 
for 

"Along  the  gray  and  melancholy  air." 

The  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale  "  contributed  the  idea  of  a 
cheating  Fancy,  and  "  Lycidas "  could  not  well  refuse 
^^  the  eyelids  of  the  morn;"  since  the  phrase  was  already 


INTRODUCTION.  xxv 

borrowed  from  the  book  of  Job.  The  close  of  the  poem 
is  frankly  reminiscent  of  "  Alastor  "  :  — 

"And  Silence,  too  enamoured  of  that  voice, 
Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell." 

But  while  this  lyrical  composite  betrays  the  writer's 
ignorance  of  literary  rights,  it  reveals  the  height  of  her 
aspiration  and  the  glow  of  her  poetic  sympathy.  The 
simpler  verses  in  the  collection,  however,  pleased  the 
rank  and  file  of  her  readers  more.  There  were  many 
who  prized  the  pathos  of  her  melodies,  and  others  who 
enjoyed  their  true  touches  of  outdoor  beauty,  so  that  the 
publication  of  the  volume  secured  Alice  Gary  a  certain 
modest  standing  as  a  poet. 

Phoebe  Gary's  literary  talent  was  generally  looked 
upon,  from  the  first,  as  slighter  than  her  sister's.  Her 
dominant  tone  is  the  religious  and  the  ethical.  She  was 
in  full  accord  wiih  the  impetuous  reformers  of  her  day, 
and  denounced  in  rhyme,  as  roundly  as  Whittier  himself, 
slavery,  the  gallows,  war.  She  sang  the  praises  of  the 
cold  water  army  and  exhorted  the  winebibber.  Pity  for 
the  poor  and  wretched,  for  the  criminals  made  by  law, 
and  the  outcasts  of  society,  rings  in  her  verse  with  no 
uncertain  sound.  Her  poems  on  death  are  less  numerous 
than  her  sister's,  and,  written  as  several  of  them  were  on 
occasion  of  the  loss  of  friends,  take  on  a  more  pro- 
nounced character  of  consolation  and  of  heavenly  hope. 
"  The  Place  of  Graves  "  describes  the  resting-spot  of  her 
mother,  Rhoda,  and  little  Lucy.  The  love  sentiment 
is  but  a  minor  interest  in  Phoebe  Gary's  poetry,  although 
she  had  something  more  akin  to  dramatic  imagination 
than  Alice  possessed  and  could  vary  her  situations  more 
easily.  A  few  of  her  love  lyrics,  however,  take  their 
color  from  Alice.  The  general  tone  of  Phoebe's  contri- 
bution to  this  first  volume  is  bracing.  She  does  not 
dwell  on  vain  regrets  nor  cherish  pathos  for  its  own  sake. 
She  has  a  healthful  relish  for  life,  with  all  its  brisk  activ- 
ities. Alice  loved  to  sing  of  twilight  and  moonlight. 
Phoebe  praised  the  early  morning.  Her  grammar  and 
her  metaphors  are  as  uncertain  as  her  sister's.  Her 
verses  savor  more  of  energetic  speech  than  song.  Her 
diction  is  generally  commonplace,  though  sometimes  ris- 
ing to  dignity.     She  is  more  independent  of  her  models 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

than  Alice,  although  it  startles  one  to  catch  the  note  of 
Hogg's  ''  Skylark  "  in  a  "  Song  of  the  Reformed."  The 
occasional  echoes  of  Moo4-e  and  Hood  and  Whittier  are 
less  obtrusive. 

Upon  the  publication  of  this  volume,  the  two  sisters, 
with  their  precious  hundred  dollars,  took  a  momentous 
trip  to  the  East  and,  in  acceptance  of  a  twice-urged  invita- 
tion, went  to  see  Whittier,  somewhat  to  the  scandal  of 
his  Quaker  women-folk.  His  account  of  that  brief  visit 
is  embodied  in  his  memorial  poem  for  Alice  Gary,  "  The 
Singer." 

Years  since  (but  names  to  me  before), 
Two  sisters  sought  at  eve  my  door  ; 
Two  song-birds  wandering  from  their  nest, 
A  gray  old  farm-house  in  the  West. 

How  fresh  of  life  the  younger  one, 
Half  smiles,  half  tears,  like  rain  in  sun  ! 
Her  gravest  mood  could  scarce  displace 
The  dimples  of  her  nut-brown  face. 

Wit  sparkled  on  her  lips  not  less 
For  quick  and  tremulous  tenderness  ; 
And,  following  close  her  merriest  glance, 
Dreamed  through  her  eyes  the  heart's  romance. 

Timid  and  still,  the  elder  had 
Even  then  a  smile  too  sweetly  sad ; 
The  crown  of  pain  that  all  must  wear 
Too  early  pressed  her  midnight  hair. 

Yet  ere  the  summer  eve  grew  long 
Her  modest  lips  were  sweet  with  song  ; 
A  memory  haunted  all  her  words 
Of  clover-fields  and  singing  birds. 

Her  dark,  dilating  eyes  expressed 

The  broad  horizons  of  the  West ; 

Her  speech  dropped  prairie  flowers  ;  the  gold 

Of  harvest  wheat  about  her  rolled. 

Fore-doomed  to  song  she  seemed  to  me : 

I  queried  not  with  destiny  : 

I  knew  the  trial  and  the  need, 

Yet,  all  the  more,  I  said,  God  speed  ! 


INTRODUCTION.  xxvii 

With  such  encouragement  as  this,  it  was  easier  for 
Alice  Cary  to  bid  farewell  to  her  native  meadows  and,  in 
the  late  autumn,  take  a  humble  place  among  the  literary 
workers  of  New  York  City.  The  two  elder  sisters  had 
married,  but  the  two  younger,  Phoebe  and  Elmina,  joined 
her  in  the  spring  of  1851.  The  Ohio  nest  had  lost  its 
song-birds  for  good  and  all.  In  process  of  time,  the  old 
homestead  passed  from  the  father  to  the  brothers.  There 
is  now  no  descendant  of  the  family  who  cares  to  occupy 
it,  and,  in  the  spring  of  1903,  it  was  purchased  by  a  be- 
nevolent citizen  of  Cincinnati  to  serve  as  a  home  for  the 
blind.  This  was  done  at  the  instance  of  two  other  de- 
voted Ohio  sisters,  Georgia  and  Florence  Trader,  the  elder 
of  whom  is  herself  bereft  of  sight,  —  sisters  who  have 
already  rendered  noble  service  to  the  blind  of  Cincinnati. 
No  disposition  of  Clovernook  could  be  more  fitting. 

The  small  flat,  up  two  flights,  in  an  unfashionable  quar- 
ter of  New  York,  was  maintained  by  the  determined  pen 
of  Alice  Cary.  In  1852  she  published  three  volumes. 
The  most  successful  of  these  was  "  Clovernook  ;  or.  Recol- 
lections of  our  Neighborhood  in  the  West."  This  fresh, 
candid  account,  in  pleasant  prose,  of  rural  Ohio  life,  took 
so  well  that  a  second  series  was  issued  the  next  year, 
followed,  in  1855,  by  "Clovernook  Children,"  addressed 
to  younger  readers.  In  1859  appeared  a  fourth  volume 
of  the  same  general  tenor,  "Pictures  of  Country  Life." 
Of  less  fortunate  augury  was  "  Hagar :  a  Story  of  To- 
day." The  main  theme  is  the  history  of  a  simple  village 
maiden  forsaken  by  her  plighted  lover,  an  elegant  young 
clergyman,  who,  haunted  by  remorse,  ultimately  goes 
mad.  The  treatment  is  uneven,  the  structure  weak,  the 
effect  melodramatic.  With  characteristic  resolution, 
Alice  Cary  kept  on  to  the  end  of  her  life,  trying  to  write 
prose  fiction.  Her  short  stories,  printed  by  the  leading 
magazines  and  journals,  were  better  than  her  novels, 
which  invariably  lack  unity  and  human  truth.  The 
amiable  characters  die  lingering  deaths ;  the  tyrants, 
slovens,  and  hypocrites  are  overdone.  The  plots  are  ill 
proportioned  and  incoherent,  the  style  uneven,  the  tone 
depressing. 

The  third  venture  of  1852  was  a  second  volume  of 
poems,  "Lyra."  This  already  showed  advance  in  firm- 
ness and  grace  of  workmanship.      The  author  had  evi- 


XX  viii  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

dently  been  pouring  over  pastoral  elegies,  Elizabethan 
as  well  as  Georgian,  with  the  result  that  the  more  elab- 
orate odes  of  the  book  confuse  the  reader  by  their  throng 
of  echoes.  The  Gary  sisters  were,  in  the  finer  sense  of 
the  term,  spiritualists,  and  certainly  this  volume  is  a 
haunted  house  murmurous  with  poet  ghosts,  —  Spenser, 
Marlowe,  Jonson,  Fletcher,  Milton,  Coleridge,  Shelley, 
Keats.  Yet  through  all  the  literary  phraseology  of 
shepherds  and  reeds,  flocks  and  folds,  Endymion,  Pro- 
teus, Thisbe,  Nereides,  shine  out  vivid  glimpses  of  genu- 
ine Ohio  fields  and  woods.  Artificial  as  these  longer 
poems  are,  they  witness  to  a  higher  poetic  sense  in  Alice 
Cary  than  is  usually  attributed  to  her.  They  reveal  her 
quest  for  a  finer  artistic  beauty  than  the  hard  pen-driven 
conditions  of  her  daily  life  ever  allowed  her  to  attain. 
In  the  shorter  lyrics  and  the  ballads,  as  well  as  in  these 
ostentatious  elegies,  the  old  melancholy  persists.  She 
longs  for  the  rest  of  the  grave,  portrays  scenes  of  death 
and  burial,  and  never  tires  of  telling  the  tale  of  unre- 
quited love.     Jessie  Carrol  watches  in  vain 

"From  the  Valley  of  the  West " 

for  the  faithless  Allan  Archer,  the  dying  Madela  calls  on 
a  lover  who  does  not  come,  Agatha  pines  away  for  a  rec- 
reant Harold. 

The  volume  which  Alice  Cary  published  in  1855  was 
substantially  a  collection  of  the  poems  of  her  youth. 
Twenty-four  were  garnered  from  that  eventful  first  book, 
and  fifty-eight  from  "  Lyra."  The  new  poems  are  sixty- 
six  in  number,  the  last  being  an  ambitious  blank-verse 
romance  of  about  two  thousand  lines,  based  on  an  episode 
in  Prescott's  "  Conquest  of  Mexico."  But  not  the  far-off 
Golden  Age  of  Tezcuco,  not  those  strange  Aztec  names 
which,  the  author  naively  confesses,  she  has  not  in  every 
case  known  how  to  pronounce,  could  divert  her  from  her 
one  and  only  theme.  The  maiden  of  Tlascala  is  wooed, 
won,  and  forsaken  by  the  proud  Hualco,  with  the  antici- 
pated results  of  her  pitiful  death  and  his  unavailing 
remorse. 

Although  the  writer  states  in  her  grateful  dedication 
to  Mr.  Griswold  that  she  "  could  never  learn  to  blot  or  to 
revise/'  many  of  the  poems  reprinted  in  1855,  especially 


INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

the  odes  from  "  Lyra,"  had  been  worked  over,  shortened, 
and  much  altered  in  detail.  The  new  poems  show  a  new 
influence,  that  of  Mrs.  Browning,  and  still  strive  to  fol- 
low in  the  footprints  of  Keats,  but,  taken  as  a  whole, 
they  suggest  development  toward  simplicity  and  individ- 
uality —  a  development  attested  by  the  later  work.  Al- 
though continually  contributing  verse  to  the  periodicals, 
it  was  not  until  1866  that  Alice  Gary  published  another 
volume  of  poems,  "  Ballads,  Lyrics,  and  Hymns."  Two 
years  later  came  "A  Lover's  Diary,"  called  out  by  the 
death  of  the  youngest  sister,  Elmina,  whose  invalid  life 
had  found  shelter  in  the  pretty  home  on  Twentieth 
street,  bought  and  furnished  by  unflagging  literary  toil. 
This  home,  with  its  informal  Sunday  evening  receptions, 
had  become  a  social  centre  for  many  of  the  choicest  men 
and  women  of  New  York.  Sought  out  by  delightful 
friends,  surrounded  by  the  opportunities  of  a  great  city, 
here  the  sisters  lived  a  quiet,  industrious  life.  They 
would  rise  before  five  in  their  country-bred  fashion,  and 
ply  their  pens  all  day  as  diligently  as  if  these  had  been 
knitting-needles,  save  as  Alice  snatched  a  little  time  for 
the  housekeeping,  and  Phoebe,  more  willingly,  for  the 
sewing.  The  elder  sister,  on  whom  the  main  burden  had 
always  rested,  endured  this  strenuous  pace  for  but  a 
score  of  years.  After  months  of  illness  she  died,  on 
February  12,  1871.  Her  funeral  was  almost  like  a  tri- 
umph, so  great  and  so  distinguished  was  the  concourse 
gathered  in  honor  of  the  gentle  singer  of  Clovernook. 
Nor  should  it  be  forgotten  that,  like  one  of  her  own  hero- 
ines, she  had  sent  from  her  dying-bed  for  the  false  lover 
of  her  youth,  who,  a  gray-haired,  prosperous  widower, 
came  at  the  summons  to  receive  her  full  forgiveness. 

Phoebe's  list  of  publications  is  short  beside  that  of  her 
more  resolute  sister.  Her  second  volume  of  verse, 
"  Poems  and  Parodies,"  came  out  in  1854.  The  parodies, 
with  little  redeeming  salt  of  wit,  must  plead  guilty  to 
the  sin  of  poetic  irreverence.  Byron,  Moore,  Willis, 
Mrs.  Hemans,  Bayard  Taylor  —  personal  friend  though 
he  was  —  are  perhaps  fair  game,  but  toward  such  lyrical 
genius  as  that  of  Poe's  "  Annabel  Lee,"  such  sacred 
sorrow  as  that  of  Bryant's  "  The  Future  Life,"  of  Words- 
worth's "  Lucy,"  and  James  Aldrich's  "  A  Death-bed," 
toward  Shakespeare,  flippancy  is  all  but  profane.     The 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

worthier  half  of  the  volume  includes  a  few  poems  in 
merry,  teasing  vein,  but  the  book  opens  rather  ominously 
with  a  succession  of  thirteen  dirges.  The  fervor  of  re- 
ligious feeling,  so  notable  in  Phoebe  Gary's  first  volume, 
finds  keener  expression  in  this.  "  Nearer  Home,"  though 
its  thought  would  seem  to  be  peculiarly  obvious,  struck 
to  the  popular  heart. 

Phoebe  Gary  published  but  one  more  volume  of  original 
writing,  "Poems  of  Paith,  Hope,  and  Love,"  in  1868. 
Meanwhile,  although  by  no  means  as  indefatigable  as 
Alice,  she  kept  herself  busy  with  literary  work  of  a  mis- 
cellaneous sort.  She  wrote  short  stories  for  the  periodi- 
cals, and  articles  to  order.  With  Alice  she  edited  "  The 
Josephine  Gallery  "  and  "  From  Year  to  Year."  She  com- 
piled, with  her  friend  and  pastor.  Dr.  Deems,  "  Hymns 
for  all  Ghristians."  Her  mirth  and  fun  made  her  the 
life  of  the  home  on  Twentieth  street.  One  of  her  pet 
cronies  was  the  ingenious  Mr.  Barnum,  who  enjoyed  her 
piquant  comments  when  personally  conducted  through 
"the  greatest  show  on  earth."  It  was  she  who  sug- 
gested, in  reference  to  the  marriage  of  the  skeleton  man 
and  the  fat  woman,  that  they  must  have  "  loved  through 
thick  and  thin."  Well  content  with  life  as  she  found  it, 
she  had  no  sentimental  concern  about  her  state  of  spinster- 
hood,  and  laughed  away  all  wooers  until,  when  already 
entered  into  the  vale  of  the  forties,  she  sacrificed  a  new 
affection  to  the  old.  She  dismissed  an  acceptable  suitor 
rather  than  leave  Alice,  whose  strength  was  then  per- 
ceptibly on  the  wane. 

The  sisters,  despite  all  temperamental  differences,  had 
held  closely  together  through  life,  and  in  their  deaths 
they  were  not  divided.  The  younger  did  not  survive  the 
elder  for  six  months.  On  the  closing  day  of  July  Phoebe 
Gary  died,  and  was  laid  beside  Alice  in  Greenwood.  Death 
and  burial,  which  had  borne  so  large  a  share  in  the  poetic 
sentiment  of  both,  were  theirs  at  last.  Posthumous  vol- 
umes of  their  poems,  for  adults  and  for  children,  were 
issued  under  the  editorship  of  their  friend  Mrs.  Mary 
Glemmer  Ames,  who  was  also  to  become  their  biographer. 
Her  intimate  account  bespeaks  all  honor  for  the  women, 
while,  as  poets,  they  stand  for  a  good  and  gracious  in- 
fluence in  their  generation  and  a  fragrant  memory  down 

the  years. 

KATHARINE   LEE   BATES. 


ALICE   GARY 


DEDICATION 

TO   THE   VOLUME   OF   ALICE   GARY'S   POEMS 
PUBLISHED   IN    1855. 

To  RUFUS   WILMOT   GEISWOLD. 

My  dear  Friend  : 

It  is  not  to  avert  the  censures  of  so  judicious  a  critic 
that  I  dedicate  to  you  this  collection  of  my  poems.  You 
were  the  first  to  praise  my  simple  rhymes,  years  before 
I  met  or  dreamed  of  meeting  you ;  and  since  we  became 
personally  acquainted  you  have  always  been  ready  to 
counsel  and  encourage  me  in  those  literary  pursuits  to 
which  I  was  led  by  the  natural  inclination  of  my  mind, 
and  which  at  too  early  an  age,  perhaps,  I  adopted  as  the 
principal  means  of  hoped-for  usefulness  and  happiness. 
I  have  been  pleased,  therefore,  with  the  thought,  that  in 
such  an  inscription  as  this  I  might  express  something  of 
my  gratitude  to  you,  and  my  respect  for  you.  I  know, 
indeed,  that  it  is  not  an  unusual  distinction  to  have  been 
an  object  of  your  kindly  interest  —  that  there  are  many 
among  our  younger  authors  who  owe  much  to  your  wise 
advice  and  generous  aid  —  so  that  if  all  who  are  in  this 
way  your  debtors  were  so  to  manifest  their  feelings,  you 
would  be  wearied  with  such  displays  of  their  considera- 
tion ;  yet  this  is  the  only  manner  in  which  I  can  render 
you  that  homage  which  is  due  for  your  genius  and  worth, 
especially  from  me,  who  am  under  so  many  obligations 
to  you;    and  I  feel  assured  that  you  will  receive  my 


4  DEDICA  TION. 

offering  with  as  miicli  satisfaction  as  if  it  conferred  on 
you  more  than  on  myself  a  desirable  honor. 

Of  the  character  of  these  Poems  I  have  little  to  say: 
I  submit  them  to  the  world's  judgment,  not  without  fears 
that  the  favor  with  which  a  considerable  number  of  them 
have  been  received,  as  from  time  to  time  they  have  been 
separately  printed,  will  not  be  preserved  when  they  are 
read  in  so  large  a  collection.  It  may  be  a  woman's 
weakness,  but  I  confess  that  I  could  never  learn  to  blot 
or  to  revise,  and  after  any  effusion  of  a  moment  has  gone 
from  my  hands,  have  had  no  heart  to  look  at  it  w^ith  the 
cold  curiosity  of  a  critic.  "  What  is  writ  is  writ,"  I 
have  been  content  to  say,  adding  with  a  just  sense  of  its 
faults,  "  Would  it  were  worthier,"  yet  rarely  or  never 
feeling  in  the  mood  to  destroy  and  re-create.  Neverthe- 
less, while  the  pieces  in  this  volume  have,  for  the  most 
part,  their  original  imperfections,  I  am  not  without  a 
pleasing  belief  that  time  and  pains  have  done  away  with 
some  of  my  earlier  faults,  and  that  they  will  still  enable 
me  to  improve.  I  feel  very  sensibly  that  I  have  not 
redeemed  the  kind  prophecies  of  my  friends,  nor  fulfilled 
the  hopes  I  have  had  and  have  now  for  myself. 

Born  and  reared  in  the  midst  of  rural  occupations,  and 
all  my  most  cherished  memories  keeping  me  still  familiar 
with  woods  and  fields,  I  have  drawn  from  my  own  past 
the  imagery  and  chief  accessories  of  my  poems,  which 
have  therefore  in  this  respect  a  certain  genuineness.  It 
will  be  perceived  that  I  have  not  often  attempted  new 
rhythms,  but  have  been  content  in  some  cases  to  set  my 
thoughts  to  music  with  which  the  world  has  sweetly 
rung  for  ages. 

The  longest  of  these  poems  is  based  on  an  episode 
in  Mr.  Prescott's  admirable  work,  "  The  Conquest  of 
Mexico,"  and  is  composed  in  the  main  with  fidelity  to 


DEDICATION.  5 

the  representations  of  Prescott,  Clavigero,  Lord  Kings- 
borough,  and  the  few  other  authors  within  my  reach 
who  have  written  of  Aztec  history  and  civilization.  I 
am  not  confident  that  I  have  always  correctly  under- 
stood the  proper  pronunciatiion  of  Aztec  names,  but  I 
have  as  far  as  possible  avoided  the  use  of  those  which 
seemed  the  most  difficult.  To  the  objection  sometimes 
urged  against  such  themes,  based  on  the  idea  that  poetry 
has  to  do  only  with  a  high  cultivation,  accommodated  to 
our  own  notions  of  taste  and  justice,  I  cannot  assent; 
human  nature  is  nearly  the  same  in  all  conditions,  and 
in  every  condition  has  elements  of  beauty,  not  less  poeti- 
cal because  displayed  sometimes  amid  barbaric  splendors 
and  savage  superstitions. 

I  will  not  dwell  further  upon  these  poems  —  the  writ- 
ten cloud  and  sunshine  of  so  much  of  my  life  —  but 
respectfully  and  gratefully  dedicate  them  to  you,  as  a 
memorial  of  our  long  existing  friendship. 

A.  C. 

New  York, 
October,  1854. 


POEMS  BY  ALICE  GARY. 


-o-oXKoo- 


KEATS* 

Till  the  future  dares 
Forget  the  past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  he' 
An  echo  and  a  light  into  f  eternity.  —  Shelley. 

Across  the  southern  hills  comes  the  3"0ung  May, 

In  her  lap  bearing,  wet  with  honied  showers, 
White  and  blue  violets,  open  to  the  day, 

Blush  roses,  and  the  yellow  cowslip  flowers ; 
But  from  her  o'er-full  arms  they  lean  away 

Toward  the  melodious  shadows  of  warm  June, 
Where  their  first  love  a  pallid  ghost  doth  stray 

Like  a  lorn  maiden  wailing  'neath  the  moon. 

A  very  queen  of  beauty  doth  she  move, 

Waving  her  vermeil-blossomed  wand  in  air; 
While  Hope  with  crimsoning  cheek,  and  soft-eyed 
Love, 

Sprinkle  the  yellow  sunshine  of  her  hair 
With  winking  flower-stars,  and  the  blue  above 

With  its  dropped  hem  of  silver,  beauteously 
Edged  with  the  sea-green  fringes  of  the  grove, 

Tents  her  about  with  glory  fair  to  see. 

Alone  I  sit,  and  yet  not  all  alone. 

For  unsubstantial  beings  near  me  tread ; 
At  times  I  hear  them  piteously  moan  — 

Haply  a  plaint  for  the  o'er-gifted  dead, 
That,  to  the  perfectness  of  stature  grown. 

Had  filled  the  vacant  heart  of  Time  for  aye 
With  a  deep  sea  of  melody  unknown. 

And  sunken  from  the  embracing  light  of  day. 

*  Revised  as  "  Hyperion  "  in  volume  of  1855. 
+  Misprint  for  "  unto." 

7 


8  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

And  yet  alone,  for  not  a  human  heart 

Stirs  with  tumultuous  throbbings  the  deep  hush ; 
Almost  the  blue  air  seems  to  fall  apart 

From  the  delirious  warble  of  the  thrush  — 
A  wave  of  lovely  sound  untouched  of  art, 

That  floats  above  me  like  embodied  joy  ; 

0  for  such  wasteless  dowery,  to  impart 
Delight  so  dainty  and  without  alloy ! 

Deep  in  the  shady  cincture  of  the  vale 

I  hear  a  long  and  melancholy  cry, 
As  a  lost  spirit  might  in  anguish  wail, 

Clinging  to  sin,  yet  longing  for  the  sky : 
And  o'er  the  hill-tops,  crowded  with  verdure  pale, 

A  gnarled  oak  lifts  above  its  fellow  trees 
Its  gray  head,  palsy-stricken  by  the  gale, 

Defiant  of  the  lapse  of  centuries. 

A  golden  cloud  above  the  sunken  sun 

Holds  the  first  star  of  the  night's  solemn  train. 
Clasped  from  the  world's  profaneness,  like  a  nun, 

Behind  the  shelter  of  the  convent  pane : 
Did  the  delicious  light  of  such  a  one 

Fleck  his  dark  pathway  with  its  shimmering  fire, 
Whose  fingers,  till  life's  little  day  was  done. 

Clung  like  pale  kisses  to  the  charmed  lyre  ? 

1  've  read,  in  some  chance  fragment  of  old  song, 

A  tale  to  muse  of  in  this  lovely  light. 
About  a  maiden  fled  from  criiel  wrong 

Into  the  chilly  darkness  of  the  night ; 
Upon  whose  milk-white  bosom,  cold  and  long. 

Beat  the  rough  tempest ;  but  a  waiting  arm 
"Was  reaching  toward  her,  and  in  hope  grown  strong, 

Fled  she  along  the  woods  and  through  the  storm. 

But  how  had  he  or  heart  or  hope  to  sing 

Of  Madeline  or  Porphyro  the  brave. 
While  the  dim  fingers  of  pale  suffering 

Were  pressing  down  his  eyelids  to  the  grave  ? 
How  could  he  to  the  shrine  of  genius  bring 

The  constant  spirit  of  a  bended  knee, 
Ruffling  the  horrent  blackness  of  Death's  wing 

With  the  clear  echoes  of  eternity  ? 


KEA  TS.  9 

Hark !  was  it  but  the  wind  that  swept  along, 

Shivering  the  hawthorn,  pale  with  milky  flowers  ? 
The  swan-like  music  of  the  dying  song 

Seems  swimming  on  the  bosom  of  the  hours. 
If  Fancy  cheats  me  thus,  she  does  no  wrong  — 

With  mists  of  glory  is  my  heart  o'erblown, 
And  shapes  of  beauty  round  about  me  throng. 

When  of  that  mused  rhyme  I  catch  the  tone. 

0  lost  and  radiant  wanderer  of  the  storm, 

Beauty  eternal  shines  along  the  wave. 
That  bore  thee  on  like  an  o'ermasteriug  arm 

To  the  blind  silence  of  the  hungry  grave ; 
Nor  genial  spring,  nor  summer  sunshine  warm, 

Broken  to  flakes  of  gold  by  boughs  of  gloom, 
Hath  power  to  make  life's  frozen  current  warm, 

And  the  dark  house  of  dust  to  re-illume. 

Tell  me,  ye  sobbing  winds,  what  sign  ye  made, 

Making  the  year  with  dismal  pity  rife, 
When  the  all-levelling  and  remorseless  shade      ' 

Closed  o'er  the  lovely  summer  of  his  life? 
Did  the  sad  hyacinths  by  the  fountains  fade, 

And  tear-drops  touch  the  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
And  Muses,  empty-armed,  the  gods  upbraid, 

When  that  great  sorrow  to  the  world  was  born  ? 

Did  Death  stoop  softly,  and  with  gentle  tone 

Sweetly  dispose  his  pallid  limbs  to  rest, 
As  down  the  shadowy  way  he  went  alone, 

With  Love's  young  music  trembling  in  his  breast  ? 
Then  sunk  as  fair  a  star  as  ever  shone 

Along  the  gray  and  melancholy  air ; 
And  from  Parnassus'  hoary  front,  o'ergrown 

With  plants  immortal,  moaned  infirm  Despair. 

Weave  close,  ye  woods,  your  blooming  boughs  to-night, 

Shut  from  my  sense  the  joyous  insect  choir, 
And  all  the  intense  stars  whose  wannish  light 

Checkers  the  wavy  grass  like  spots  of  fire : 
Nature  for  my  sad  thought  is  all  too  bright, 

And  half  I  long  for  clouds  to  veil  the  sky, 
And  softly  weep  for  the  untimely  blight 

Of  all  of  him  I  sing  of  that  could  die. 


10  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

The  yellow  leaves  that  covered  up  his  grave 

Are  hidden  by  the  monumental  stone ; 
Immortal  amaranths  o'er  his  slumber  wave, 

And  fame's  deep  trumpet  to  the  world  has  blown 
The  echoes  of  his  lyre.     In  her  mute  cave, 

Silence  shall  lock  my  little  song  away. 
And  the  vain  longing  for  the  fount  that  gave 

His  name  to  glory,  perish  with  the  clay. 


HANNIBAL'S   LAMENT   FOR   HIS   BROTHER. 

In  the  rich  shadows  of  a  gorgeous  tent 

Sat  the  famed  chief  of  Carthage,  as  through  bars 
Of  heavy  gold  the  day's  last  beams  were  sent ; 

And  Eve,  in  her  tiara  of  bright  stars 
And  garniture  of  purple,  to  her  breast 
Like  a  fond  mother,  took  her  child  to  rest. 
The  boding  phantom  of  his  bosom  brings 

The  Alps  before  him,  with  their  icy  crags, 
For  victory,  with  her  broad  and  starry  wings, 

Is  settling  brightly  on  the  Roman  flags ; 
And  as  the  silent  shadows  round  him  close. 
His  voice  finds  way  through  barriers  of  woes :  — 
*'  My  lost,  my  fallen  brother  !  can  it  be 

That  the  proud  beauty  of  thy  brow  is  dim, 
Bright  victor  of  fierce  battles  ?     Is  the  dust 

That  hides  the  commonest  soldier,  strewed  o'er  thee  ? 
And  must  thy  falchion  ignominious  rust  ? 

Yet,  he  fell  bravely,  not  unworthy  him 
Who  was  the  offspring  of  a  battle-star. 
And  cradled  in  the  bloody  arms  of  war ! 
And  't  is  my  joy  that  he  was  not  of  those 

Who  shrink  from  peril ;  with  a  stoic's  pride 
He  bared  his  bosom  to  his  country's  foes. 

And,  rushing  to  the  combat,  fought  and  died! 
Lost  star  of  glory  !  in  my  childhood's  time 

Thou  wert  my  sweetest  counsellor  and  guide ; 
And  in  the  freshness  of  my  manhood's  prime 

I  wooed  thee  to  my  bosom  as  a  bride  : 
But  thou,  whose  banner  in  the  dust  is  veiled, 

With  thee  the  aim  of  my  existence  died ; 


HANNIBAL'S  LAMENT  FOR  HIS  BROTHER.       11 

And  Fear,  that  never  until  now  assailed, 
Sits  like  a  mocking  demon  by  my  side ! 

"  For  hungry  wolves,  the  Spartan  mothers  tore 
The  babes  from  their  warm  bosoms,  every  day ; 

And  if  they  smiled  not,  they  at  least  forbore 
To  give  vain  sorrow  an  o'ermastering  sway : 

And  have  I  more  to  sacrifice  than  they  ? 

Yes,  time,  in  part,  their  losses  might  restore, 

But  mine  must  be  remediless  for  aye. 

"  I  hear  the  constant  singing  of  the  streams, 

Down  in  the  vineyards,  beautiful  and  wide, — 
0  thou  embitterer  of  my  goldenest  dreams, 

I  thought  to  conquer  thee  before  I  died ! 
Ye  gods !  must  I  be  rifled  of  that  joy. 
And  taunted  like  a  beardless,  love-sick  boy ! 
Yet  have  I  battled  with  Rome's  chiefest  men. 

And  triumphed  gloriously ;  her  brazen  gates 
Had  not  availed  her  haughty  spirit  then, 

Had  I  led  firmly  onward,  —  but  the  Fates 
Make  me  their  sport  and  plaything,  when  one  blow, 
Dealt  by  the  hand  of  her  eternal  foe. 
Had  crushed  her  power  and  placed  her  at  my  feet,  — 
Her  mighty  heart  my  pillow  :  this  were  sweet ! 

"  Gaul's  proudest  chivalry  I  've  met  in  fight. 
And  trampled  them  as  reeds  upon  the  plain ; 

Slaughtered  at  bay,  and  hunted  down  in  flight. 
They  cried  for  quarter,  but  they  cried  in  vain  ; 

And  the  blue  waters  of  the  Rhone  that  night 

Stood  red  and  stagnant,  choked  with  heaps  of  slain !  " 

Were  there  no  spectral  shadows  gliding  there, 

0  baffled  champion,  for  thy  country's  weal  ? 
No  semblances  of  "  angels  with  bright  hair 

Dabbled  in  blood,"  to  fix  the  damning  seal 
To  a  close-hugged  ambition  ?     Better  dwell 

The  lowliest  shepherd  of  Arcadia's  bowers, 
Than  mount  to  where  the  insatiate  fire  of  hell. 

Like  to  a  serpent's  tooth,  the  heart  devours ! 


12  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

THE   WRECK. 

Veiled  were  our  topsails  to  the  blast;    our  helm  was 

lashed  a-lee  ; 
And  fearlessly  our  vessel  drove  before  a  stormy  sea,  — 
O,  safely  in  our  midst  that  night  had  lain  an  empire's 

crown ; 
Eor  every  mariner  had  said  our  vessel  must  go  down ! 

Some  shrieked  aloud;    some  humbly  knelt,  who  never 

knelt  before ; 
And  some,  with  outstretched  arms,  looked  forth  toward 

the  viewless  shore ; 
And  rougher  still  the  rough  wind  blew,  and  heavier  roll'd 

the  sea. 
Till  every  heart  was  poured  in  prayer,  God  of  the  storm, 

to  Thee. 

At  length  about  the   middle  watch,  an  aged  man  and 

Eight  in  the  solemn  hush,  stood  up,  and  said  he  could 
not  pray ; 

And  while,  above  our  gallant  deck,  the  mountain-billows 
broke, 

Each  soul  forgot  the  storm,  while  thus  the  trembling  sin- 
ner spoke :  — 

'^  I  've  been  a  rover  of  the  seas  these  four-and-forty  years. 
And,  in  their  darkest  hours,  my  eyes  have  been  ashamed 

of  tears ; 
But  now  I  fain  would  give  myself  an  offering  to  the 

deep, 
If  I  could  say  the  prayers  you  say,  or  weep  as  you  can 

weep. 

''  The  blackest  clouds  along  the  sky,  through  which  the 

thunders  roll. 
Are  calm  as  peace,  when  measured  with  the  tempest  in 

my  soul : 
Once,   when  my  heart  was  innocent,   and   joyous  as    a 

bird's, 
My  mother  taught  me  how  to  pray  —  I  cannot  say  the 

words. 


THE    WRECK.  13 

"  'T  is  well  that  mother  died  so  soon,  for  oft,  I  know,  she 

smiled, 
And  talked   about   the  happiness  that   waited   for  her 

child ; 
And  I  have  been  long  years  of  those  whose  troublings 

never  cease, 
Aside  from  Virtue's  pleasant  ways  and  all  her  paths  of 

peace. 

"  My  spirit  grew  the  house  of  pride ;  I  scorned  our  hum- 
ble cot. 

And  deemed  that,  for  my  lowliness,  the  world  had  loved 
me  not. 

Once,  when  the  night  was  dark,  like  this,  the  thunder's 
roll  as  deep, 

There  was  a  whisper  in  my  heart  that  would  not  let  me 
sleep. 

"I  knew  't  was  Satan  telling  me.  Thou  shalt  not  surely 

die; 
And  yet  I  went,  as  goes  the  bird,  down  to  the  serpent's 

eye. 
Hard  by  my  father's  cot  there  dwelt  a  harmless  man,  and 

old. 
Whose  house  was  filled  with  merchandise  and   shining 

heaps  of  gold. 

"  That  night  I  sought  his  dwelling  out,  and  with  a  stealthy 
tread. 

Winding  the  gloomy  passages,  I  stood  beside  his  bed. 

I  said  the  night  was  dark  with  storm ;  but,  by  the  light- 
ning's beam  — 

(Oh,  would  to  Heaven  the  arm  upraised  had  withered  in 
its  gleam)  — 

"  I  saw  him :  I  have  been,  since  then,  in  lighted  halls  of 

mirth  — 
In  deserts  vast,  and  palaces,  and  caverns  of  the  earth  — 
A  thousand  and  a  thousand  times  I  've  sailed  across  the 

deep. 
And  that  old  man  has  with  me  been,  awake^  and  in  my 

sleep. 


14  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

"Almost  my  heart  misgave  me  once,  so  wan  he  looked, 

and  old; 
But  when  I  turned  to  flee  away,  I  saw  the  cursed  gold ; 
And  so  I  slew  him  — twice  he  stirred,  and  once  he  feebly 

cried. 
As  with  a  rough  and  heavy  stone  I  smote  him  till  he 

died. 

"Then  clutching,  in  my  bloody  hands,  the  prize,  I  fled 

away ; 
But  shapeless  things  had  followed  me,  that  I  could  never 

slay. 
Three  days  in  the  thick  woods  I  hid,  afraid  of   every 

sound. 
And  o'er  and  o'er  I  washed  my  hands  in  every  pool  I 

found. 

"  My  guilt  upon  the  withered  leaves  *  seemed  writ,  as  on 

a  scroll. 
And  every  wandering  wind  I  met  was  questioning  my 

soul : 
I  thought  the  dead  man's  gold  so  thrilled  the  marrow  in 

my  bones. 
And,  seeking  out  a  lonesome  cave,  I  hid  it  in  the  stones. 

"But   still   there  were  accusing   tongues   in   herb,  and 

flower,  and  tree. 
And  so  I  left  the  haunts  of  men,  and  wandered  on  the 

sea  "  — 
Just  then  our  fated  vessel  struck  upon  a  rocky  shore,  — 
One  shriek  arose,  and  all  again  grew  silent  as  before. 

I  floated,  as  by  miracle,  upon  the  off-torn  deck, 

And  knew  not  any  living  soul  was  with  me  on  the  wreck ; 

But  when  the  morn,  with  misty  eyes,  looked  down  upon 

the  tide, 
That  old  man,  with  his  arms  across,  was  sitting  at  my 

side. 

*  Corrected  to  "  each  withered  leaf,"  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


/  WOULD    TELL   HIM   THAT  I  LOVE   HIM.     15 


I   WOULD   TELL   HIM   THAT   I   LOVE   HIM. 

I  WOULD  tell  him  that  I  love  him,  but  I  know  my  tongue 

would  fail, 
For  his  heart  is  proud  and  haughty,  and  would  scorn  the 

simple  tale ; 
Since  my  feet  have  never  wandered  from  the  home  where 

I  was  born, 
Save  among  the  pleasant  meadows  and  the  fields  of  yellow 

corn. 

No !  my  lips  shall  never  speak  it,  for  he  knows  I  love 

him  now ! 
He  has  seen  the  burning  blushes  on  my  cheek  and  on 

my  brow; 
He  has  heard  my  accent  falter  when  he  said  that  we  must 

part. 
And  he  must  have  read  the  writing  that  is  written  in  my 

heart ! 

Unlearned  am  I  in  eloquence,  save  that  of  gentle  words, 
And  I  never  harked  to  music  that  was  sweeter  than  the 
•  birds'  — 
0!  if  his  haughty  mother  knew  I  loved  but  half   so 
well. 
She  would  hate  me  with  a  bitterness  that  words  could 
never  tell ! 

I  Ve  left  my  gentle  sister  and  her  ever  warm  embrace 
When  I  knew  that  young  Sir  Richard  would  be  coming 

from  the  chase ; 
For  somehow  oft  it  chances  in  our  rambles  that  we  meet, 
And  I  think  — shall  I  deny  it?  — that  a  stolen  kiss  is 

sweet ! 

Last  night  I  dreamed  I  stood  with  him  before  a  man  of 

prayer. 
With  the  garland  of  white  blossoms,  that  he  gave  me,  in 

my  hair ; 
And  he  called  me  by  a  dearer  name  than  sister,  or  than 

friend  — 
0 !  how  I  wish  so  sweet  a  dream  had  never  had  an  end ! 


16  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Not  for  his  lordly  castles  and  his  acres  of  broad  land 
Do  I  love  young  Kichard  Percy ;  for  with  but  his  heart 

and  hand, 
A  cabin  in  the  wilderness,  a  cavern  by  the  sea, 
Or  a  tent  in  the  wide  desert,  would  be  home  enough  for 

me. 


THE   SPECTRE   WOMAN. 

Along  the  hollow  chancel  the  winds  of  autumn  sung. 

And  the  heavy  flitting  of  the  bat  was  heard  the  aisles 
among ; 

The  sky  was  full  of  stars  that  night,  the  moon  was  at  the 
full, 

And  yet  about  the  old  gray  church  the  light  was  some- 
thing dull. 

And  in  that  solemn  churchyard,  where  the  mould  was 

freshly  thrown. 
Wrapped  in  a  thin,  cold  sheet,  there  sat  a  lovely  maid 

alone : 
The  dark  and  tangled  tresses  half  revealed  her  bosom's 

charms. 
And  a  something  that  lay  hidden,  like  a  birdling  in  her 

arms. 

By  that  pale,  sad  brow  of  beauty,  and  the  locks  that  fall 

so  low. 
And  by  the  burning  blushes  in  that  lovely  cheek,  I  know 
She  hath  listened  to  the  tempter,  she  hath  heard   his 

whisper  dread, 
When  the  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan,"  hath  been  all  too 

faintly  said. 

It  was  not  the  willows  trailing,  as  the  winds  among  them 

stole. 
That  was  heard  there  at  the  midnight,  nor  the  digging 

of  the  mole ; 
Nor  yet  the  dry  leaves  dropping  where  the  grass  was 

crushed  and  damp, 
And  the  light  that  shone  so  spectral  was  not  the  fire-fly's 

lamp. 


THE   PAST  AND   PRESENT.  17 

The  pale  moon  veiled  her  beauty  in  a  lightly  passing 

cloud, 
When  a  voice  was  heard  thrice  calling  to  that  woman  in 

the  shroud ! 
But  whether  fiend  or  angel  were  for  her  spirit  come, 
The  lips  that  could  have  told  it  have  long  been  sealed 

and  dumb. 

But  they  say,  who  pass  that  churchyard  at  the  dead  watch 

of  the  night. 
That  a  woman  in  her  grave-clothes,  when  the  moon  is  full 

and  bright. 
Is  seen  to  bend  down  fondly,  but  without  a  mother's 

pride. 
Over  something  in  her  bosom  that  her  tresses  cannot  hide. 


THE   PAST   A:N^D   PRESENT. 

Ye  everlasting  conjurers  of  ill. 

Who  fear  the  Samiel  in  the  lightest  breeze, 
Go,  moralize  with  Marius,  if  you  will, 

In  the  old  cradle  of  the  sciences ! 
Bid  the  sarcophagi  unclose  their  lids  — 

Drag  the  colossal  sphinxes  forth  to  view  — 
Rouse  up  the  builders  of  the  pyramids, 

And  raise  the  labyrinthian  shrines  anew ; 
And  see  the  haughty  favorite  of  the  fates  — 

The  arbiter  of  myriad  destinies : 
Thebes,  with  her  "feast  of  lights"  and  hundred  gates,' 

And  Carthage,  mother  of  sworn  enmities, 
Not  mantled  with  the  desolate  weeds  and  dust 

Of  centuries,  but  as  she  sat  apart, 
Nursing  her  lions,  ere  the  eagle  thrust 

His  bloody  talons  deep  into  her  heart ;  — 
Then  say,  what  was  she  in  her  palmiest  times 

That  we  should  mourn  forever  for  the  past? 
In  fame,  a  very  Babylon  —  her  crimes 

Thfe  plague-spot  of  the  nations  to  the  last ! 

And  Rome  !  the  seven-hilled  city;  she  that  rose 
Girt  with  the  majesty  of  peerless  might, 


18  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

From  out  the  ashes  of  her  fallen  foes  — 

She  in  whose  lap  was  poured,  like  streams  of  light, 
The  wealth  of  nations :  was  she  not  endowed 

With  that  most  perilous  gift  of  beauty  —  pride  ? 
And  spite  of  all  her  glories  blazoned  loud, 

Idolatrous,  voluptuous,  and  allied 
Closer  to  vice  than  virtue  ?     Hark  !  the  sounds 

Of  tramping  thousands  in  her  stony  street ! 
And  now  the  amphitheatre  resounds 

With  acclamations  for  the  engrossing  feat ! 
Draw  near,  where  men  of  war  and  senates  stood, 

And  see  the  pastime,  whence  they  joyance  drank,  — 
The  Lybian  lion  lapping  the  warm  blood 

Oozed  from  the  Dacian's  bosom.     On  the  bank 
Of  the  sweet  Danube,  smiling  children  wait 
To  greet  their  sire,  unconscious  of  his  fate. 
Oh,  draw  the  wildering  veil  a  little  back, 

Ye  blind  idolators  of  things  that  were ; 
Who,  through  the  glory  trailing  in  their  track. 

See  but  the  whiteness  of  the  sepulchre ! 

Then  to  the  Present  turning,  ye  will  see 

Even  as  one,  the  universal  mind 
Rousing,  like  genius  from  a  reverie. 

With  the  exalted  aim  to  serve  mankind : 
Lo !  as  my  song  is  closing,  I  can  feel 

The  spirit  of  the  Present  in  my  heart ; 
And  for  the  future,  with  a  wiser  zeal. 

In  life's  great  drama  I  would  act  my  part: 
That  they  may  say,  who  see  the  curtain  fall 

And  from  the  closing  scene  in  silence  go. 
Haply  as  some  light  favor  they  recall, 

Peace  to  her  ashes,  —  she  hath  lessened  woe ! 


DEATH   OF   CLEOPATRA. 

The  stars  of  Egypt's  haughty  crown 

Were  settled  on  the  brow, 
And  many  a  purple  wave  swept  down 

From  royal  dust  below. 


DEATH  OF  CLEOPATRA.  19 

Girt  with  the  realms  that  owned  her  power, 

Enthroned  in  regal  pride, 
With  priceless  kingdoms  for  a  dower, 

Imperial  beauty  died. 

The  spoils  of  cities  overthrown 

Her  broad  dominion  lined ; 
With  pearls  her  palaces  were  sown 

As  blossoms  by  the  wind. 
Her  merchant-ships  on  every  sea 

The  royal  flag  unrolled, 
Laden  with  spices  heavily 

And  fragrant  oil  and  gold. 

And  yet  from  all  the  proud  array 

That  gather  round  a  throne, 
The  queen  imperious  turned  away, 

Sickened,  and  died  alone. 
How  died  she  ?     Through  her  chamber  dim 

Did  songs  and  victories  roll  ? 
And  were  there  fervent  prayer  and  hymn 

Said  for  the  parting  soul  ? 

Not  so :  they  brought  her  robes  of  state. 

And  decked  her  for  the  tomb, 
And,  cumbered  with  the  gorgeous  weight. 

She  proudly  met  her  doom  : 
And  o'er  the  hand  of  heavy  clay 

That  once  had  guided  wars. 
In  all  their  mocking  beauty  lay 

The  purple  and  the  stars. 

Earth  lent  her  soul  no  power  to  stem 

Such  stormy  waves  as  were  ; 
And  the  sweet  star  of  Bethlehem 

Had  risen  not  for  her. 
0  Thou,  who  daily  givest  its  beams, 

Be  the  dark  sins  forgiven 
Of  her  whose  wild  and  mystic  dreams 

Were  all  she  knew  of  Heaven. 


20  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 


PALESTINE. 

Bright  inspiration  !  shadowing  my  heart 
Like  a  sweet  dream  of  beauty  —  could  I  see 

Tabor  and  Carmel  ere  I  hence  depart, 
And  tread  the  quiet  vales  of  Galilee, 

And  look  from  Hermon,  with  its  dew  and  flowers, 

Upon  the  broken  walls  and  mossy  towers 

O'er  which  the  Son  of  man  in  sadness  wept, 

The  dearest  promise  of  my  life  were  kept. 

Alas !  the  beauteous  cities,  crowned  with  flowers, 

And  robed  with  royalty !  no  more  in  thee. 
Fretted  with  golden  pinnacles  and  towers. 

They  sit  in  haughty  beauty  by  the  sea : 
Shadows  of  rocks,  precipitate  and  dark, 

Eest  still  and  heavy  where  they  found  a  grave ; 
There  glides  no  more  the  humble  fisher's  bark. 

And  the  wild  heron  drinks  not  of  the  wave. 

But  still  the  silvery  willows  fringe  the  rills, 

Judea's  shepherd  watches  still  his  fold ; 
And  round  about  Jerusalem  the  hills 

Stand  in  their  solemn  grandeur  as  of  old ; 
And  Sharon's  roses  still  as  sweetly  bloom 

As  when  the  apostles,  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Kolled  back  the  shadows  from  the  dreary  tomb, 

And  brought  to  light  life's  immortality. 

The  East  has  laid  down  many  a  beauteous  bride 

In  the  dim  silence  of  the  sepulchre. 
Whose  names  are  shrined  in  story,  but  beside 

There  lives  no  sign  to  tell  they  ever  were. 
The  imperial  fortresses  of  old  renown  — 

Rome,  Carthage,  Thebes  —  alas  !  where  are  they  now  ? 
In  the  dim  distance  lost  and  crumbled  down ; 

The  glory  that  was  of  them,  from  her  brow 
Took  off  the  wreath  in  centuries  gone  by. 

And  walked  the  Path  of  Shadows  silently. 

But,  Palestine  !  what  hopes  are  born  of  thee  — 
I  cannot  paint  their  beauty  —  hopes  that  rise. 


NAPOLEON  AT  THE  DEATH  OF  DUROC.       21 

Linking  this  perishing  mortality 

To  the  bright,  deathless  glories  of  the  skies ! 
There  the  sweet  Babe  of  Bethlehem  was  born  — 

Love's  mission  finished  there  in  Calvary's  gloom, 
There  blazed  the  glories  of  the  rising  morn, 

And  Death  lay  gasping  there  at  Jesus'  tomb ! 


NAPOLEON   AT   THE   DEATH   OF   DUEOC. 

Thou  who  movest  through  the  tent-lights, 

Like  a  cloud  among  the  stars, 

With  the  flags  about  thee  streaming 

Like  the  shadows  of  red  Mars ; 

Art  thou  he  who  lately  slumbered 

By  the  Nile  with  turbans  red, 
While  the  children  of  the  desert 

Wailed  about  thee  for  their  dead  ? 

Yes,  thou  'rt  he  whose  standards  fluttered 
Where  the  Rhine's  bright  billows  flow, 

And  where  brave  men  left  their  footprints 
Eed  in  Hohenlinden's  snow ! 

He,  upon  whose  shattered  columns, 
Darkened  by  the  artillery's  frown, 

At  the  awful  Beresina, 

Victory's  starry  wings  came  down ! 

Erom  the  plains  of  Rio  Seco 

To  Siberia's  mountain  heights, 
Glory  with  thy  name  is  blended. 

Hero  of  a  thousand  fights  ! 

Yet  thou  movest  through  the  tent-lights 

Like  a  cloud  among  the  stars, 
With  the  flags  about  thee  floating 

Like  the  shadows  of  red  Mars. 


22  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

One  thy  great  soul  loves  is  dying, 
One  of  courage  true  and  tried, 

And  the  spirit  faints,  and  triumph 
Fails  before  affection's  tide. 

Hark !  the  bursts  of  lordly  music 
On  the  midnight  rise  and  fall ! 

Wounded  Eagle  of  the  Legion, 
Wilt  thou  answer  to  its  call  ? 

Yes,  the  Imperial  Guard  are  flying 
Toward  the  dark  tent  of  the  king ! 

Death  hath  taken  home  his  captive, 
Is  the  tidings  which  they  bring ! 

Therefore  moves  he  through  the  tent-lights 
Like  a  cloud  among  the  stars. 

With  the  flags  about  him  trailing 
Like  the  shadows  of  red  Mars ! 


THE   ORPHAN   GIUL* 

My  heart  shall  rest  where  greenly  flow 

The  willows  o'er  the  meadow  — 
The  fever  of  this  burning  brow 

Be  cooled  beneath  their  shadow. 
When  summer  birds  go  singing  by. 

And  sweet  rain  wakes  the  blossom, 
My  weary  hands  shall  folded  lie 

Upon  a  peaceful  bosom. 

When,  Nature,  shall  the  night  begin 

That  morning  ne'er  displaces, 
And  I  be  calmly  folded  in 

Thy  long  and  still  embraces  ? 
Dearer  than  to  the  Arab  maid, 

When  sands  are  hotly  glowing. 
The  deep  well  and  tented  shade, 

Were  peace  of  thy  bestowing. 

*  Reprinted  in  the  volume  of  1855  without  the  third  stanza. 


THE  HOMELESS.  23 

My  soul  was  once  a  house  of  light, 

Whose  joy  might  not  be  spoken ; 
But  Fancy  wore  a  wing  too  bright, 

And  now  my  heart  is  broken ! 
But  where  the  violets  darkly  bloom. 

And  greenly  flows  the  willow  — 
Down  on  the  pavement  of  the  tomb, 

There  waits  a  quiet  pillow. 


THE   HOMELESS. 

As  down  on  the  wing  of  the  raven 

Or  drops  on  the  upas-tree  lie, 
So  darkness  and  blight  are  around  me 

To-night,  I  can  scarcely  tell  why  ! 
Alone  in  the  populous  city  ! 

No  hearth  for  my  coming  is  warm, 
And  the  stars,  the  sweet  stars,  are  all  hidden 

On  high  in  the  cloud  and  the  storm  ! 

The  memories  of  things  that  are  saddest. 

The  phantoms  unbidden  that  start 
From  the  ashes  of  hopes  that  have  perished, 

Are  with  me  to-night  in  my  heart ! 
Alas  !  in  this  desolate  sorrow. 

The  moments  are  heavy  and  long ; 
And  the  white-pinioned  spirit  of  Fancy 

Is  weary,  and  hushes  her  song. 

One  word  of  the  commonest  kindness 

Could  make  all  around  me  seem  bright, 
As  birds  in  the  haunts  of  the  summer. 

Or  lights  in  a  village  at  night ; 
But  lacking  that  word,  on  my  spirit 

There  settles  the  heaviest  gloom, 
^nd  I  sit  with  the  midnight  around  me. 

And  long  for  the  peace  of  the  tomb. 


24  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 


A  NOEL AND   BALLAD* 

The  train  of  the  Norse  king 

Still  winds  the  descents, 
Leading  down  where  the  waste-ridge 

Is  white  with  his  tents ; 
The  eve  star  is  climbing 

Above  where  they  lie, 
Like  hills  at  the  harvest-time. 

White  with  the  rye. 

Who  comes  through  the  red  light 

Of  bivouac  and  torch, 
With  footsteps  un slackened 

By  fasting  or  march? 
Majestic  in  sorrow, 

No  white  hand,  I  trow. 
Can  take  from  that  forehead 

Its  pale  seal  of  woe : 

Past  grooms  that  are  merrily 

•    Combing  the  steeds, 

To  the  tent  of  the  Norse  king 

He  hurriedly  speeds  ; 
A  right  noble  chieftain, — 

That  gloved  hand,  I  know. 
Has  swooped  the  ger-falcon 

And  bended  the  bow. 

Out  speaks  he  the  counsel 

He  comes  to  afford  — 
"  As  loves  this  engloved  hand 

The  hilt  of  my  sword  — 
As  loves  the  pale  martyr 

The  sacrament  seal  — 
My  heart  loves  my  liege  lord 

And  prays  for  his  weal. 

^'  I  once  wooed  a  maiden. 

As  fair  to  my  sight  * 

As  the  bride  of  the  Norse  king 
I  plead  for  to-night ; 

*  Given  here  as  reprinted,  with  a  few  verbal  changes,  in  the  volume  of  1855, 


A   NORLAND  BALLAD.  25 

As  thou  dost,  I  tarried, 

Her  fond  faith  to  prove, 
And  the  wall  of  the  convent 

Grew  up  'twixt  our  love. 

"  Hold  we  to  our  marching 

Three  leagues  from  this  ridge, 
And  we  compass  our  rear-guard 

With  moat  and  with  bridge: 
Give  one  heart  such  shriving 

As  priest  can  afford, 
And  a  sweet  loving  lady 

The  arms  of  her  lord ! 

"  0  felt  you  sweet  pity 

For  half  I  have  borne, 
The  scourgings,  the  fastings, 

The  lip  never  shorn  ; 
You  fain  would  not  linger 

For  wassail's  wild  sway, 
But  leaping  to  saddle. 

Would  hold  on  the  way." 

Outspoke  then  the  Norse  king, 

Half  pity,  half  scorn, 
"  Go  back  to  thy  fasting 

And  keep  thee  unshorn ; 
No  tale  of  a  woman 

Pause  I  to  divine  ;  " 
And  from  the  full  goblet 

He  quaffed  the  red  wine. 

Then  fell  sire  and  liegeman 

To  feasting  and  song ; 
I  ween  to  such  masquers 

The  night  was  not  long : 
And  but  one  little  trembler 

Stood  pale  in  the  arch, 
When  gave  the  king  signal 

To  take  up  the  march. 

If  danger  forewarn  him, 
The  omen  he  hides, 


26  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

And  mounting  right  gaily, 
He  sings  as  he  rides  : 

"  Now,  bird  of  the  border, 
Look  forth  for  thy  chief ; 

By  the  bones  of  St.  Peter, 
Thy  watch  shall  be  brief !  " 

"  Stand  forth,  wretched  prophet," 

He  cries  in  his  wrath, 
As  his  foam-covered  charger 

Has  struck  on  the  path 
Leading  down  to  his  castle ; 

"  Stand  forth  !  here  is  moat, 
Here  is  drawbridge  —  we  charge 

Back  the  lie  in  thy  throat !  " 

"  Pause,  son  of  the  mighty. 

My  bode  is  not  lost 
Till  the  step  of  the  master 

The  lintel  has  crossed ; 
And  then  if  my  counsel 

Prove  ghostly  or  vain  "  — 
The  king  smiled  in  triumph 

And  flung  down  the  rein. 

Lo !  passed  is  the  threshold, 

None  answer  his  call ; 
Why  starts  he  and  trembles  ? 

There 's  blood  in  the  hall ! 
His  step  through  the  corridor 

Hurriedly  dies, 
'T  is  only  an  echo 

That  answers  his  cries. 

One  pale  golden  ringlet 

That  kissed  the  white  cheek 
Of  the  beautiful  lady 

They  find  as  they  seek : 
There  was  mounting  of  heralds 

In  hot  haste,  I  ween. 
But  the  bride  of  the  Norse  king 

Was  never  more  seen. 


MORNA.  27 


MORNA. 


Alas  !  't  is  many  a  weary  day 

Since,  on  a  pleasant  eve  of  May, 
I  first  beheld  her ;  slight  and  fair 

With  simple  violets  in  her  hair, 
And  a  pale  brow  of  thought  beneath, 

That  never  wore  a  prouder  wreath ; 
And  roses  hanging  on  her  arm, 

Fresh  gathered  from  the  mountain  side ; 
And  wherefore,  by  her  mien  and  form 

She  is  not  mother,  wife,  nor  bride? 
Surely  the  hopes  of  childish  years 

Still  freshly  on  her  girlhood  rise ; 
But  no,  her  cheek  is  wet  with  tears  — 

What  do  they  in  those  heavenly  eyes  ? 
The  mournful  truth  they  well  belie ; 

The  roses,  and  the  child-like  form, 
I  know  thee,  by  that  look  and  sigh, 

A  pale,  sweet  blossom  of  the  storm. 
And  see !  she  pauses  now,  and  stands 

Where  step  save  hers  has  scarcely  trod, 
And  softly,  with  her  milk-white  hands, 

Lays  down  her  blossoms  in  the  sod. 
There  is  no  marble  slab  to  tell 

Who  lies  so  peacefully  asleep ; 
'T  is  written  on  the  heart  as  well, 

Of  her  who  lingers  there  to  weep. 

One  evening  in  the  accustomed  vale 

I  missed  the  blossoms  from  the  turf. 
For  Morna's  lovely  brow  was  pale, 

And  cold  as  ocean's  beaten  surf. 
That  night  I  learned,  beside  her  bier, 

The  story  of  her  grief  in  part.  — 
For  much,  that  mortal  might  not  hear, 

Lay  hidden  in  her  broken  heart. 
She  was  the  child  of  poverty. 

And  knew  from  birth  its  friendless  ills ; 
But  never  blossom  fair  as  she 

Grew  up  among  her  native  hills. 
Sweet  child  !  she  early  learned  to  sigh  ; 

The  roses  on  her  cheek  grew  pale ; 


28  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

It  matters  not  to  tell  thee  why  — 
^  Who  is  there  will  not  guess  the  tale? 

He  was  the  haughty  child  of  pride  — 

The  angel  of  delusive  dreams ; 
And  therefore  was  she  not  a  bride 

Who  slumbers  by  her  native  streams. 
The  weeds  of  desolate  years  o'erspread 

The  pathway  where  so  oft  she  trod ; 
No  mourner  lingers  o'er  her  bed, 

Or  bears  fresh  blossoms  to  the  sod. 


ALDA.* 


You  would  have  loved  her,  had  you  seen ; 
The  beauty  of  her  life  was  prayer ; 
The  sweet  sky  never  wet  with  showers 
A  bed  of  yellow  primrose  flowers 
As  sunny  as  the  lovely  sheen 
Of  her  loose  hair. 

O'er  the  low  casement  her  soft  hands 
Twined  tenderly  the  creeping  vines ; 
Out  in  the  woodland's  shady  glooms 
Loved  she  to  gather  summer  blooms, 
And  where,  from  yonder  valley  lands, 
The  river  shines. 

The  rain  was  falling  when  she  died. 
The  sky  was  dismal  with  its  gloom. 
And  autumn's  melancholy  blight 
Shook  down  the  yellow  leaves  that  night, 
And  mournfully  the  low  winds  sighed 
About  her  tomb. 

At  midnight,  near  the  gray  old  towers 
That  lift  their  lordly  pride  so  high, 
Was  heard  the  dismal  raven's  croak. 
From  the  red  shadows  of  the  oak, 
And  with  her  pale  arms  full  of  flowers, 
The  dead  went  by. 

*  Reprinted  in  volume  of  1855, 


THE   PIRATE.  29 

An  old  man  now,  with  thin  white  hair, 
Oft  counts  his  beads  beneath  that  tree ; 
Sometimes  when  noontide's  glow  is  bright, 
And  sometimes  in  the  lonesome  night, 
He  breathes  the  dead  girl's  name  in  prayer 
On  bended  knee. 

A  shepherd  boy  —  so  runs  the  tale  — 
Once,  as  he  pent  his  harmless  flocks. 
Crossed  the  sweet  maid,  her  lap  all  full 
Of  lilies  pied,  and  cowslips  dull, 
Weaving  up  fillets,  red  and  pale, 
.  For  her  long  locks. 

Sweetly  the  eve-star  lit  the  towers, 
When,  homeward  riding  from  the  chase, 
Down  from  his  coal-black  steed  there  leapt 
A  courtier  gay,  whose  dark  plumes  swept 
A  cloud  of  ringlets  bound  with  flowers. 
And  love-lit  face. 

Summer  is  gone  —  the  casement  low, 
With  dead  vines  darkened  —  winds  are  loud ; 
Alda,  no  more  the  gray  old  towers 
Shut  from  thee  heaven's  sweet  border  flowers. 
Comb  back  the  locks  of  golden  glow, 
And  bring  the  shroud. 


THE   PIRATE. 

Elzimina  !  maid  of  ocean, 

With  the  bosom  of  soft  light, 
Seest  thou,  settling  down  between  us. 

Stormy,  never-ending  night  ? 
Through  thy  curtains  of  pale  splendor, 

As  the  rosy  lamp-light  falls. 
Comes  there  not  a  memory,  tender, 

Of  my  dungeon's  stony  walls  ? 


30  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Elzimina  !  maid  of  ocean, 

I  can  see  thee,  pale  and  meek, 
Wiping  with  thy  amber  tresses 

The  salt  waters  from  thy  cheek  — 
Struggling  like  a  beam  of  brightness 

Towards  my  closing  prison-door. 
With  thy  arms  of  tender  whiteness 

Stretched  to  clasp  me  once,  once  more ! 

Elzimina !  maid  of  ocean. 

But  the  love  of  heaven's  sweet  shore 
Or  the  dread  of  hell  could  tempt  me 

That  dark  parting  to  live  o'er. 
Will  there  not  some  mystic  token 

Fill  thy  heart  with  bitter  pain 
When  the  sod  lies  cold  and  broken 

Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain  ? 

Elzimina !  maid  of  ocean. 

Rising  from  the  hills  I  see, 
Thin  and  white,  the  mists  of  morning. 

That  shall  never  set  for  me ! 
Wrecks  of  vessels  lost  and  stranded 

Filled  thy  soft  heart  with  alarm, 
And  the  gray  wings,  beating  landward, 

Warned  the  sailor  of  the  storm. 

When,  0  lovely  maid  of  ocean. 

From  the  rocking  deck  with  me. 
Saw  ye  last  the  fiery  sunset 

Paint  the  arteries  of  the  sea  ? 
When  the  red  moon's  reddest  shadow 

Like  a  mantle  clasped  thy  form, 
And  the  green  waves  like  a  meadow 

Rose  and  fell  before  the  storm. 

Elzimina!  dream  of  beauty, 

'Neath  the  lips  that  dare  not  speak, 
Like  the  moonlight's  falling  crimson 

Burned  thy  lily  brow  and  cheek. 
Destiny  than  will  is  stronger. 

And  thy  gentle  eyes  must  weep, 
When  my  red  flag  lights  no  longer 

The  blue  bosom  of  the  deep ! 


THE   ORPHAN'S  DREAM  OF  LOVE.  31 

Elzimina!  maid  of  ocean, 

Farewell  now  to  thee  and  hope, 
E'en  thy  white  hands  cannot  save  me 

From  the  coiling  gallows  rope. 
From  the  scaffold,  newly  risen. 

Creeps  a  shadow,  dull  and  slow. 
O'er  the  damp  wall  of  my  prison  — 

God  have  mercy  on  thy  woe ! 


THE   OEPHAN'S   DREAM   OF   LOVE. 

Oh  !  how  my  very  heart  could  weep 

To  think  that  none  will  see  nor  know ; 
Love's  fountain  may  be  still  when  deep. 

And  silent,  though  it  overflow. 
But  blossoms  may  unheeded  grow, 

Whose  leaves  the  sweetest  balm  enfold, 
And  streams  be  noiseless  in  their  flow 

That  wander  over  sands  of  gold. 
O  love  !  thou  word  that  sums  all  bliss  — 

Thou  that  no  language  ever  told  — 
Best  gift  of  brighter  worlds  to  this,  — 

They  err,  and  oh  !  their  hearts  are  cold. 
Who  hope  to  speak  thee  :  —  such  would  seem 

A  thing  too  little  worth  to  prize. 
And  mine  is  an  ideal  dream 

The  world  can  never  realize ! 
They  find,  whose  spirits  blend  with  mine, 

Thy  best  interpreter  a  sigh ; 
Bring  their  wreath  offering  to  the  shrine. 

And  lay  their  hearts  down  silently. 
There  comes  at  times,  on  viewless  wings. 

And  nestles  in  my  heart,  a  bird  — 
Of  Heaven,  I  think  —  for  oh !  it  sings 

The  sweetest  songs  I  ever  heard. 
When  first  it  came,  't  was  long  ago. 

For  childhood's  years  were  scarcely  by, 
Summer  and  evening  time,  I  know. 

For  stars  were  floating  in  the  sky. 
With  sunbeams  on  the  hills  at  play. 


32  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

And  gathering  moss  and  braiding  flowers, 
I  had  been  out  the  long,  long  day 

Till  twilight  came  with  dewy  hours ; 
And  treading  carelessly  along 

The  pathway,  through  the  starlit  glen, 
I  heard  this  sudden  flow  of  song, 

Which  I  had  never  heard  till  then. 
I  recked  not  of  the  time  I  stayed 

Enraptured,  so  the  melting  lay 
With  sweetness  filled  the  thickening  shade ; 

But  when  at  length  I  turned  away 
The  stars  had  streaked  with  silver  beams 

The  dusky  mantle  midnight  wore, 
And  I  was  dreaming  such  sweet  dreams 

As  I  had  never  dreamed  before  ! 
I  Avas  an  orphan  —  childhood's  years 

Had  passed  in  heaviness  of  heart ; 
No  second  self  had  soothed  my  tears, 

Or  in  my  gladness  bore  a  part. 
But  then  —  perchance  the  thought  was  w^eak, 

Though  vainly  by  the  lips  supprest. 
For  aught  of  which  the  heart  can  speak 

Is  never  long  a  secret  guest  — 
I  thought  that  there  might  yet  be  won 

What  in  the  world  is  daily  found, 
"  Something  to  love,  to  lean  upon, 

To  clasp  affection's  tendrils  round." 
0,  if  love's  dreams  be  all  so  sweet 

As  those  which  then  to  me  were  given, 
Two  kindred  spirits,  when  they  meet. 

Must  surely  taste  the  bliss  of  heaven ! 
It  may  be,  why  I  scarcely  know. 

But  so  to  me  it  never  seemed. 
It  may  be  fancy  made  it  so. 

But  as  I  wandered  on,  I  dreamed 
That  everything  I  looked  upon 

Was  full  of  loveliness  and  light; 
The  starry  wreath  that  night  had  on 

Before  had  never  shone  so  bright. 
And  with  such  blessings  in  his  path, 

I  marvelled  man  should  ever  sin  — 
Oh !  earth  a  crowning  radiance  hath 

When  all  is  light  and  peace  within ! 


THE   BLUE   SCARF.  33 

But  since  that  vision  of  the  glen 

Long  weary  years  have  o'er  me  flown, 

And  left  me  what  they  found  me  then, 
Within  the  wide,  wide  world  alone. 


THE   BLUE   SCARF. 

The  soldier  of  an  elder  clime  — 

His  bosom  seamed  with  scars  — 
Has  oft  beguiled  my  wanderings 

With  legends  of  the  wars. 
Once  as  we  slacked  our  bridle-reins 

To  gain  a  rising  hill, 
He  told  a  tale  of  other  times 

That  I  remember  still. 

Sunset  was  slanting  rosily, 

And  every  cloud  on  high 
Was  like  a  floating  pyramid 

Of  blossoms  in  the  sky. 
"  There  's  something,"  said  the  aged  sire, 

"  In  everything  I  see 
That  brings  again  the  lights  and  shades 

Of  other  days  to  me: 

"  For  one,  of  all  my  brethren 

The  bravest  in  the  fight. 
Stood  with  me  in  the  crimson  haze 

Of  just  so  sweet  a  night. 
We  heard,  against  the  shelving  rocks, 

The  dashing  of  the  seas. 
And  saw  the  summer  sun  go  down 

From  just  such  hills  as  these. 

"  There  never  was  a  stronger  arm 

In  any  field  of  war. 
Nor  heart  that  beat  more  fearlessly 

Beneath  a  knight's  broad  star. 
For  ever  in  the  hottest  fight 

We  saw  his  scarf  of  blue: 
His  eye  repelled  the  curious  — 

His  name  we  never  knew. 


34  POEMS   BY  ALICE   GARY. 

"  He  never  joined  in  reveliyj 
And  never  wept  the  slain, 

And  never  either  smiled  or  sighed 
For  any  loss  or  gain : 

For  when  the  wings  of  victory- 
Were  shining  o'er  our  host, 

I  've  seen  him  in  his  tent  as  sad 
As  if  the  day  were  lost. 

"  Once  grappling  with  an  enemy 

Whose  fingers,  dropping  blood, 
Left  on  his  flaunting  scarf  their  print  — 

I  slew  him  where  he  stood. 
For  this  he  seemed  to  love  me  more 

Than  aught  of  living  breath, 
And  at  the  peril  of  his  soul 

Thrice  rescued  me  from  death. 

"  And  when  all  hacked  with  gaping  wounds 

That  left  me  many  a  scar. 
The  long  and  weary  march  was  his 

Of  the  blue  scarf  and  star. 
And  when  sweet  voices  called  me  back 

From  warfare's  stern  array, 
He  girt  my  heavy  armor  on 

And  shared  my  homeward  way. 

"  The  old  ancestral  hills,  at  last, 

That  overhung  the  sea, 
Were  reached,  and  eve  put  on  a  smile 

As  if  to  welcome  me. 
Then  said  the  knight,  most  mournfully, 

^  Our  path  is  one  no  more  ; 
Thine  to  yon  ancient  castle  leads. 

And  mine  is  by  the  shore.' 

"  When  at  the  morning  hour  I  saw 

The  heavy  shades  of  night 
Break  sullenly  and  roll  away 

Before  the  welcome  light. 
Without  a  hand  upon  his  rein. 

As  there  was  wont  to  be. 
His  steed,  with  all  his  housings  on. 

Stood  champing  by  the  sea. 


THE   STRANGER'S  EPITAPH.  36 

"  And  there,  all  wet  and  tangled,  lay 

The  bright  blue  scarf  he  wore, 
Among  the  sea-weed  and  the  sand. 

Washed  out  upon  the  shore. 
0  there  were  dark  imaginings  — 

They  may  have  been  untrue  — 
For  blent  with  that  insignia 

Was  all  we  ever  knew." 


THE   STRANGER'S   EPITAPH. 

'T  IS  but  a  sad  and  simple  line, 

Portraying  well  the  sleeper's  doom  ; 
I  pray  it  never  may  be  thine  — 

Stoop  down  and  read  it  on  her  tomb. 
She  gave  it  me  the  night  she  died  ; 

I  never  thought  to  know  the  rest. 
Believing  that  her  maiden  pride 

Was  fain  to  lock  it  in  her  breast. 

"  She  perished  of  a  broken  hecwt,''  — 

In  truth  a  sad  and  simple  line ; 
If  this  her  story  doth  impart, 

I  pray  it  never  may  be  mine ! 

The  time  I  never  shall  forget. 

When,  with  her  dark  eyes  full  of  tears, 
She  told  me  that  the  seal  was  set 

Upon  the  limit  of  her  years : 
And  even  ere  she  ceased  to  speak 

What  secretly  before  I  knew. 
The  hectic  deepening  on  her  cheek 

Attested  that  the  words  were  true. 
It  was  not  that  she  feared  to  lie 

On  the  cold  pillow  of  the  tomb ; 
But  sometimes,  though  we  scarce  know  why, 

The  heart  is  full,  and  tears  will  come. 

Whatever  griefs  were  hers  to  bear. 
They  surely  had  no  taint  of  sin; 


36  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

A  temple  outwardly  so  fair 

Could  only  have  been  pure  within : 
And  sometimes  when  the  fountain  stirred 

Too  palpably  within  her  breast, 
A  sigh,  a  tear,  a  broken  word, 

Have  left  her  secret  more  than  guessed. 
As  from  this  vale  we  watched  the  stir 

Of  the  light  billows  of  the  sea, 
Both  sadly  musing  —  I  of  her. 

And  she  of  anything  but  me  — 
She  warbled  something  in  a  tone 

As  light  and  joyous  as  a  bird's, 
(It  never  sounded  like  her  own 

Unless  the  heart  were  in  the  words,) 
Something  of  summer  fruit  and  flowers. 

Of  waving  meadows  and  ripe  grain  — 
Of  home  and  hearth,  and  wedded  hours, 

Then  pausing  suddenly  —  "  'T  is  vain, 
'T  is  more  than  vain,"  she  sadly  said, 

"  To  nurse  these  haunting  visions  now  : 
The  nuptial  and  the  bridal  bed 

Were  never  meant  for  me  and  thou. 
0  thou  for  whom  I  could  have  died, 

I  am  as  nothing  unto  thee  ! 
Well,  hast  thou  not  another  bride. 

And  wherefore  should  I  care  to  be  ? '' 
Then  placing  her  thin  hand  in  mine. 

Half  sad,  half  playfully,  she  said, 
"  I  fain  would  have  this  simple  line 

Upon  my  tomb  when  I  am  dead." 
Another  evening  came  —  the  breeze 

Was  lightly  sporting  with  the  wave, 
And  wild  birds  dropping  in  the  trees. 

Whose  shadows  rested  on  her  grave. 

Three  summer-times  the  grass  had  grown 

Unshaven  on  her  lowly  bed. 
And  autumn's  yellow  leaves  been  strown 

As  often  o'er  the  slumbering  dead, 
When  on  the  evening  of  a  day 

As  beautiful  as  that  she  died, 
A  harper  and  a  maiden  gay,  — 

Haply  she  may  have  been  his  bride. 


THE  BETRAYAL.  37 

Haply  a  sister,  or  a  friend, 

I  know  not,  —  but  her  joyous  laugh 
She  checked,  and  here  I  saw  them  bend 

To  read  the  stranger's  epitaph. 
And  both  alike  were  young  and  fair, 

And  both  were  happy,  it  may  be, 
And  yet,  though  lightly  touched  of  care, 

Some  dark  thread  in  the  destiny 
Of  one  must  surely  have  had  place  — 

Leaning  against  this  solemn  yew. 
And  muffling  from  the  light  his  face, 

He  wept  as  man  may  scarcely  do ; 
It-seemed  as  if  some  thought  of  pain 

By  the  sad  epitaph  was  stirred, 
For  oft  he  turned,  then  came  again, 

And  read  it  over  word  by  word. 
The  twilight's  rosy  hours  went  by, 

And  evening  deepened  into  gloom ; 
The  last  stars  trembled  in  the  sky. 

And  still  I  saw  them  by  the  tomb. 
And  once  since  then  in  every  year. 

What  time  the  reaper  loves  to  see, 
I  note  the  self-same  minstrel  here. 

And  marvel  what  his  grief  can  be. 

She  perished  of  a  broken  heart  — 
We  can  but  guess  the  harper's  fate ; 

But  surely  thus  to  die  apart 

Were  better  than  to  meet  too  late  ! 


THE   BETRAYAL.* 

Tell  me  when  the  stars  are  flashing 

In  the  northern  sky  so  blue, 
Or  when  morning's  tender  crimson 

Sweetly  burns  among  the  dew. 
Comes  there  no  reproachful  whisper 

Erom  the  mornings  and  the  eves. 
When  Hope's  white  buds  into  beauty 

Opened  like  the  faint  young  leaves  ? 

*  Given  here  as  reprinted,  with  slight  changes,  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


38  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

Ay,  thou  feel'st,  despite  thy  silence  — 

That  betrayal  burns  thy  cheek  ; 
Even  to  Love's  forgiving  bosom 

There  be  thoughts  thou  canst  not  speak 
From  the  roses  of  that  bridal, 

The  dark  price  of  nameless  woe, 
Thou  mayst  not  unbind  the  curses 

Till  thy  last  of  suns  is  low ! 

Lost  and  broken  is  the  music 

That  with  beauty  filled  the  night,  — 
Melted  from  the  frozen  branches 

Are  the  frost-stars  glistening  bright,  — 
When  a  maid  with  trembling  bosom 

Watched  a  ne'er  returning  steed. 
Cleaving  through  the  silver  shadows, 

On  and  on,  his  shaft-like  speed ! 

Faint  against  the  ringing  pavement. 

Fainter  still  the  hoof-strokes  beat ; 
Scarcely  can  she  tell  the  shimmer 

Of  the  flint-sparks  from  the  sleet. 
Years  are  gone :  the  village  hilltops 

Redden  with  the  sunset's  glow ; 
With  a  lap  all  bright  with  blossoms 

Still  the  summers  come  and  go. 

With  a  cheek  grown  thinner,  whiter, 

And  the  dark  locks  put  away 
From  a  brow  of  patient  beauty, 

Dwells  the  maiden  of  my  lay  — 
Dwells  she  where  the  peaceful  shadow 

Of  her  native  hills  is  thrown. 
Binding  up  the  wounds  of  others 

All  the  better  for  her  own. 


THE   CHILDREK 

Come,  sit  down,  little  children. 
Beneath  these  green  old  trees. 

There 's  such  a  world  of  sweetness 
In  the  kisses  of  the  breeze : 


THE   CHILDREN.  39 

Now  push  away  the  tresses 

From  your  young  and  healthful  brows, 
And  listen  to  the  music 

Up  above  us  in  the  boughs. 

How  pleasant  is  the  stirring 

Where  the  leaves  are  thick  and  bright; 
And  the  wings  of  birds  are  floating, 

Like  the  golden  summer  light. 
The  fragrance  of  the  brier-rose 

Is  sweet  upon  the  air ; 
And  the  pinks  and  dark-leaved  violets 

Are  scattered  everywhere. 

The  lilies  hang  their  silver  cups 

Close  to  the  water's  edge, 
And  the  pebbles  are  veined  deeply 

As  the  berries  in  the  hedge. 
But  where  yon  winding  pathway 

Along  the  hill  is  trod, 
'T  is  the  mourner's  heavy  footstep 

That  has  worn  away  the  sod. 

The  smooth  white  stones,  like  spectres, 

Are  standing  in  the  shade, 
To  mark  the  narrow  chambers 

Where  the  old  and  young  are  laid. 
There  hides  the  deadly  night-shade 

Where  the  tall  and  bent  grass  waves ; 
And  willow's  tresses,  long  and  sad, 

Are  trailed  above  the  graves. 

Not  with  the  gentle  falling 

Of  the  early  summer  rain ; 
Not  with  the  pleasant  rushing 

Of  the  sickle  in  the  grain ; 
Nor  when  the  crimson  mantle 

Of  the  morn  is  o'er  them  spread, 
Shall  the  pale  hands  be  unfolded 

From  the  bosoms  of  the  dead. 

But  there  's  a  morn  appproaching 

When  the  sleepers  shall  arise. 
And  go  up  and  be  with  angels 

In  the  ever-cloudless  skies. 


40  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Oh,  earth  is  very  beautiful 

With  sunshine  and  with  flowers ; 

But  there  's  a  world,  my  little  friends, 
Of  purer  hearts  than  ours. 


TO   MARY* 


Oh,  will  affection's  tendrils  twine 

About  that  summer-time  for  aye, 
When,  midway  'twixt  thy  home  and  mine 

The  quiet  village  churchyard  lay  !  — 
With  stars  beginning  to  ascend. 

The  nighthawks  scooping  through  the  air  — 
Dost  thou  remember,  oh,  my  friend, 

How  often  we  have  parted  there  ? 

That  summer  was  a  sunlit  sea, 

Reflecting  neither  cloud  nor  frown, 
Yet  in  its  bright  wave  noiselessly 

Some  ventures  of  the  heart  went  down  ; 
Blest  be  the  one  that  still  outrides 

The  silent  but  tumultuous  strife 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  the  heaving  tides. 

That  beat  against  the  shore  of  life! 

The  flowers  run  wild  that  used  to  be 

So  softly  tended  by  thy  hand  — 
Colors  of  beauty  struck  at  sea. 

And  drifted  backward  to  the  land ; 
Breathing  of  havens  whence  we  sailed, 

Visions  of  lovelight  seen  and  fled. 
Swift  barks  of  gladness  met  and  hailed. 

Of  beacon  fires,  and  land  ahead ! 

To-night,  sweet  friend,  the  light  and  shade 

Are  trembling  softly  in  my  heart ; 
A  hush  upon  my  soul  is  laid  — 

Our  paths  henceforth  must  lie  apart ; 
In  the  dim  chamber  where  I  sit. 

Fears,  hopes,  and  memories  rise  and  blend, 
Like  cloud  wastes  with  the  sunshine  lit  — 

Only  with  them  art  thou,  my  friend ! 

*  Given  here  as  reprinted,  with  a  few  verbal  changes,  in  the  volume  of  1865. 


THE  LOVER'S    VISION.  41 


THE   LOVER'S   VISION.* 

The  inist  o'er  the  dark  woods 

Hangs  whiter  than  snow, 
And  the  dead  leaves  keep  surging 

And  moaning  below ! 
Who  treads  through  their  dim  aisles  ? 

Now  answer  me  fair — 
'T  is  not  the  bat's  flabby  wing 

Beating  the  air! 

A  sweet  vision  rises, 

Though  dimly  defined, 
And  a  hand  on  my  forehead 

Lies  cold  as  the  wind ! 
I  clasp  the  white  bosom, 

No  heart  beats  beneath ; 
From  the  lips,  once  so  lovely, 

Forth  issues  no  breath. 


The  red  moon  was  climbing 

The  rough  rocks  behind, 
And  the  dead  leaves  kept  moaning, 

As  now,  in  the  wind ; 
The  white  stars  were  shining 

Through  cloud-rifts  above, 
When  first  in  these  dim  woods 

I  told  her  my  love. 

Half  fond,  half  reproachful. 

She  gazed  in  my  face. 
And,  shrinking,  she  suffered 

My  fervid  embrace : 
And  speaking  not,  lingered 

With  love's  bashful  art. 
Till  the  light  of  her  dark  eyes 

Burned  down  to  my  heart ! 

*  Given  here  as  reprinted,  with  a  few  verbal  changes,  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


42  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Like  the  leaf  of  the  lily 

When  Autumn  is  chill, 
The  tiny  hand  trembled 

That  now  is  so  still ; 
And  I  knew  the  sweet  passion, 

Her  lips  only  sighed, 
In  the  hush  of  her  chamber 

The  night  that  she  died! 

O'er  the  shroud  of  the  pale  one 

I  made  then  a  vow 
To  kiss  back  the  crimson 

Of  life  to  her  brow  ; 
If  she  from  the  still  grave 

Would  come,  as  she  hath, 
And  walk  at  the  midnight 

This  lone  forest  path. 

The  cloud-rifts  are  closing. 

The  white  stars  are  gone; 
But  the  hushed  step  of  darkness 

Moves  solemnly  on. 
I  call  the  dead  maiden, 

But  win  no  reply  — 
She  has  gone,  and  forever, — 

Would  I,  too,  could  die. 


MELODY. 


Where  white  in  the  jungles 

Lay  bones  of  the  dead. 
All  night  the  wild  lioness 

Howled  as  she  fed : 
The  wind  hot  and  sultry. 

And  scarcely  awake, 
Through  the  dust  of  the  desert-sand 

Crept  like  a  snake. 

But  a  beacon  gleamed  redly 

The  blue  rocks  along. 
Where  a  golden-tressed  maiden 

Sat  singing  her  song : 


TO  LUCY.  43 

With  her  passionate  warble 

The  white  sea-mist  stirred, 
And  a  boat  to  the  desert  shore 

Flew  like  a  bird. 

The  deep  burning  blushes 

That  cover  her  brow, 
In  a  lover's  embraces 

Are  all  hidden  now. 
Wild  rover  of  ocean, 

Proud  scorner  of  storms, 
Guard  fondly  the  treasure 

Thus  clasped  in  thine  arms. 

As  the  eyes  of  the  pilgrim, 

Wherever  he  be, 
Turn,  down-trodden  city 

Of  beauty,  to  thee : 
Turn  thou,  in  life's  pauses 

Of  dimness  arid  care, 
To  the  sweet  love  of  woman, 

That  all  things  will  dare! 


'? 


TO   LUCY. 


The  leaves  are  rustling  mournfully. 

The  yellow  leaves  and  sere ; 
For  Winter  with  his  naked  arms 

And  chilling  breath  is  here. 
The  rills  that  all  the  autumn-time 

Went  singing  to  the  sea, 
Are  waiting  in  their  icy  chains 

For  Spring  to  set  them  free. 
No  bird  is  heard  the  livelong  day 

Upon  its  mates  to  call. 
And  coldly  and  capriciously 

The  slanting  sunbeams  fall. 

There  is  a  shadow  on  my  heart 

I  cannot  fling  aside  ; 
Sweet  sister  of  my  soul !  with  thee 

Hope's  brightest  roses  died. 


44  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

I  'm  thinking  of  the  pleasant  hours 

That  vanished  long  ago, 
When  summer  was  the  goldenest, 

And  all  things  caught  its  glow : 
I  'm  thinking  where  the  violets 

In  fragrant  beauty  lay, 
Of  the  buttercups  and  primroses 

That  blossomed  in  our  way. 

I  see  the  willow,  and  the  spring 

O'ergrown  with  purple  sedge ; 
The  lilies  and  the  scarlet  pinks 

That  grew  along  the  hedge ; 
The  meadow,  where  the  elm  tree  threw 

Its  shadows  dark  and  wide. 
And  sister-flowers  in  beauty  grew 

And  perished  side  by  side : 
O'er  the  accustomed  vale  and  hill 

Now  Winter' g  robe  is  spread ; 
The  beetle  and  the  moth  are  still, 

And  all  the  flowers  are  dead. 

I  mourn  for  thee,  sweet  sister, 

When  the  wintry  hours  are  here ; 
But  when  the  days  grow  long  and  bright, 

And  skies  are  blue  and  clear  — 
Oh,  when  the  Summer's  banquet, 

Among  the  flowers  is  spread. 
My  spirit  is  most  sorrowful 

That  thou  art  with  the  dead. 
We  laid  thee  in  thy  narrow  bed 

When  autumn  winds  were  high  — 
Thy  life  had  taught  us  how  to  live, 

And  then  we  learned  to  die. 


AN   EVENING   TALE.* 

Come,  thou  of  the  drooping  eyelid. 
And  cheek  that  is  meekly  pale. 

Give  over  thy  pensive  musing 
And  list  to  a  lonesome  tale ; 

*  Reprinted  under  title  of  "  The  Convent  "  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


AN  EVENING    TALE.  46 

For  hearts  that  are  torn  and  bleeding, 

Or  heavy  as  thine,  and  lone, 
May  find  in  another's  sorrow 

Forgetfulness  of  their  own. 
So  heap  on  the  blazing  fagots 

And  trim  the  lamp  anew. 
And  I  '11  tell  you  a  mournful  story  — 

I  would  that  it  were  not  true ! 

The  bright  red  clouds  of  the  sunset 

On  the  tops  of  the  mountains  lay, 
And  many  and  goodly  vessels 

Were  anchored  below  in  the  bay ; 
We  saw  the  walls  of  the  city, 

And  could  hear  its  vexing  din, 
As  our  mules,  with  their  nostrils  smoking, 

Drew  up  at  a  w^ayside  inn  : 
The  hearth  was  ample  and  blazing, 

For  the  night  was  something  chill. 
But  my  heart,  though  I  knew  not  wherefore, 

Sank  down  with  a  sense  of  ill. 

That  night  I  stood  on  the  terrace 

O'erlooking  a  blossomy  vale. 
And  the  gray  old  walls  of  a  convent, 

That  loomed  in  the  moonlight  pale  — 
Till  the  lamp  of  the  sweet  Madonna 

Grew  faint  as  if  burning  low, 
And  the  midnight  bell  in  the  turret 

Swung  heavily  to  and  fro  — 
When  just  as  its  last  sweet  music 

Came  back  from  the  echoing  hill, 
And  the  hymn  of  the  ghostly  friars 

In  the  fretted  aisle  grew  still  — 
On  a  rude  bench,  hid  among  olives, 

I  noted  a  maiden  fair. 
Alone,  with  the  night  wind  playing 

In  the  locks  of  her  raven  hair. 
Thrice  came  the  sound  of  her  sighing, 

And  thrice  were  her  red  lips  pressed 
With  wild  and  passionate  fervor 

To  the  cross  that  hung  on  her  breast : 


46  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

But  her  bearing  was  not  the  bearing 

That  to  saintly  soul  belongs, 

Albeit  she  chanted  the  fragments 

Of  holy  and  beautiful  songs. 

'T  was  the  half  hour  after  the  midnight, 

And,  so  like  that  it  might  be  now, 
The  full  moon  was  meekly  climbing 

Over  the  mountain's  brow  — 
When  the  step  of  the  singing  maiden 

In  the  corridor  lightly  trod, 
And  I  presently  saw  her  kneeling 

In  prayer  to  the  mother  of  God  ! 
On  the  leaves  of  her  golden  missal 

Darkly  her  loose  locks  lay, 
And  she  cried,  "  Forgive  me,  sweet  Virgin, 

And  mother  of  Jesus,  I  pray  !  " 

When  the  music  was  softly  melting 

From  the  eloquent  lips  of  morn, 
Within  the  walls  of  the  convent 

Those  beautiful  locks  were  shorn: 
And  wherefore  the  veil  was  taken 

Was  never  revealed  by  time, 
But  Charity  sweetly  hopeth 

For  sorrow,  and  not  for  crime. 


SAILOE'S   SONG. 

Ha  !  the  bird  has  fled  my  arrow  — 

Though  the  sunshine  of  its  plumes, 
Like  the  summer  dew,  is  dropping 

On  its  native  valley  blooms : 
In  the  shadow  of  its  parting  wing 

Shall  I  sit  down  and  pine, 
That  it  pours  its  song  of  beauty 

On  another  heart  than  mine  ? 

From  thy  neck,  my  trusty  charger, 
I  will  strip  away  the  rein. 

But  to  crop  the  flowery  prairie 
May  it  never  bend  again ! 


THE   OLD  HOMESTEAD.  47 

With  thy  hoof  of  flinty  silver, 

And  thy  blue  eye  shining  bright, 
Through  the  red  mists  of  the  morning 

Speed  like  a  beam  of  light. 

I  'm  sick  of  the  dull  landsmen  — 

'T  is  time,  my  lads,  that  we 
Were  crowding  on  the  canvas, 

And  standing  out  to  sea ! 
Ever  making  from  the  headlands 

Where  the  wrecker's  beacons  ride 
Red  and  deadly,  like  the  shadow 

Of  the  lion's  brinded  hide ; 

And  hugging  close  the  islands, 

That  are  belted  with  the  blue. 
Where  a  thousand  birds  are  singing 

In  the  dells  of  light  and  dew ; 
Time  unto*  our  songs  the  billows 

With  their  dimpled  hands  shall  keep, 
As  we  're  ploughing  the  white  furrows 

In  the  bosom  of  the  deep ! 

In  watching  the  light  flashing 

Like  live  sparks  from  our  prow,  •» 

With  but  the  bitter  kisses 

Of  the  cold  surf  on  my  brow, 
May  my  voyage  at  last  be  ended, 

And  my  sleep  be  in  the  tide, 
With  the  sea-waves  clasped  around  me. 

Like  the  white  arms  of  a  bride. 


THE   OLD   HOMESTEAD.f 

When  first  the  skies  grow  warm  and  bright 

And  fill  with  light  the  hours, 
And,  in  her  pale,  faint  robes,  the  Spring 

Is  calling  up  the  flowers,  — 

*  Corrected  to  "to  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 

t  This  Doem  «-'as  rewritten  by  the  author  in  later  years,  and  a  fifth  stanza  was 
added. 


48  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

When  children,  with  un slippered  feet, 

Go  forth  with  hearts  of  glee, 
To  the  straight  and  even  furrows 

Where  the  yellow  corn  must  be,  — 
What  a  beautiful  embodiment 

Of  ease,  devoid  of  pride, 
Is  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead. 

With  doors  still  open  wide ! 

But  when  the  happiest  time  is  come 

That  to  the  year  belongs. 
Of  uplands  bright  with  harvest  gold, 

And  meadows  full  of  songs,  — 
When  fields  of  yet  unripened  corn 

And  daily  garnering  stores 
Remind  the  thrifty  husbandman 

Of  ampler  threshing-floors,  — 
How  pleasant,  from  the  din  and  dust 

Of  the  thoroughfare  aloof. 
Seems  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  steep  and  mossy  roof ! 

When  home  the  woodsman  plods,  with  axe 

Upon  his  shoulder  swung, 
And  in  the  knotted  apple  tree 

Are  scythe  and  sickle  hung,  — 
When  light  the  swallows  twitter 

'Neath  the  rafters  of  the  shed, 
And  the  table  on  the  ivied  porch 

With  decent  care  is  spread,  — 
The  hearts  are  lighter  and  freer 

Than  beat  in  the  populous  town. 
In  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  gables  sharp  and  brown ! 

When  the  flowers  of  Summer  perish 

In  the  cold  and  bitter  rain. 
And  the  little  birds  with  weary  wings 

Have  gone  across  the  main,  — 
When  curls  the  blue  smoke  upward 

Toward  the  bluer  sky. 
And  cold  along  the  naked  hills 

And  white  the  snow-drifts  lie,  — 


/  KNOW   THOU  ART  FREE.  49 

In  legends  of  love  and  glory 

They  forget  the  cloud  and  storm, 
In  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  hearth-stone  ample  and  warm  ! 


LIGHTS   OF   GENIUS* 

These  are  the  pillars,  on  whose  tops 

The  white  stars  rest  like  capitals. 
Whence  every  living  spark  that  drops 

Kindles  and  blazes  as  it  falls ; 
And  if  the  arch-fiend  rise  to  pluck. 

Or  stoop  to  crush  their  beauty  down, 
A  thousand  other  sparks  are  struck, 

That  Glory  settles  in  her  crown. 
The  huge  ship,  with  its  brassy  share. 

Ploughs  on  to  lead  their  light  its  course, 
And  veins  of  iron  cleave  the  air 

To  waft  it  from  its  burning  source ; 

All,  from  the  insect's  tiny  wings. 

And  the  small  drop  of  morning  dew, 
To  the  wide  universe  of  things. 

The  light  is  shining,  burning  through. 
The  light  that  makes  the  poet's  page 

Of  stories  beautiful  as  truth. 
And  pours  upon  the  locks  of  age 

The  glory  of  eternal  growth.f 


I   KNOW   THOU   AET   FREE. 

I  KNOW  thou  art  free  from  earth's  sordid  control, . 

In  the  beautiful  mansions  above  — 
That  sorrow  can  never  be  flung  o'er  the  soul 

That  rests  in  the  bosom  of  Love. 
I  know  that  the  wing  of  thy  spirit  is  furled 

By  the  palm-shaded  fountains  of  bliss. 
That  erst  in  its  strife  for  the  bright  upper  world 

Was  bruised  and  enfeebled  in  this. 

*  Given  here  as  reprinted,  shortened,  and  improved,  in  the  edition  of  1855. 
t  Changed  to  "  youth  "  in  later  editions. 


50  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

For  oft  as  I  gaze  on  thy  dwelling  of  light, 

When  the  glory  of  stars  is  on  high, 
I  hear  in  my  visions,  as  glowingly  bright. 

The  flutter  of  wings  in  the  sky  : 
And  in  the  sweet  islands  that  slumber  afar 

From  the  tomb  and  the  desert  and  sea, 
With  glory  around  thee  that  nothing  can  mar. 

My  soul  hath  revealings  of  thee. 

But  still  like  a  captive  confined  from  the  day, 

My  heart  doth  in  bitterness  pine  ; 
And  sigh  for  release  from  its  prison  of  clay. 

And  a  blissful  reunion  with  thine : 
Save  when  I  am  come  to  the  heavenly  shrine 

To  pour  supplication  and  prayer. 
For  then  doth  my  spirit  seem  nearer  to  thine, 

And  lay  down  its  mantle  of  care. 


A  GOOD  MAN. 

A  MAN  he  was,  of  thin  and  silver  hairs, 
Whose  pious  hands  and  never  wearied  feet 

Kept  from  a  sacred  field  the  enemy's  tares, 

And  nursed  to  vigorous  growth  the  precious  wheat. 

Though  he  had  loved  and  kept  the  rule  of  right. 
After  the  strictest  manner,  from  his  youth. 

Often  his  prayer  went  up  for  larger  light. 
And  deeper,  holier  reverence  for  truth. 

Hard  by  the  village  church  his  mansion  stood. 
Modest  of  bound,  yet  hospitably  wide  ; 

His  highest  eloquence  was  doing  good, 
His  simple  meekness  the  rebuke  of  pride. 

Oh !  vainly  cheerful  glowed  the  evening  fire, 

Amply  in  vain  the  housewife's  board  was  spread. 

That  night  when  homeward  came  the  toil-worn  sire 
And  told  his  children  the  good  man  was  dead. 


HYMN  OF   THE   TRUE  MAN.  51 

Within  God's  holy  temple  there  was  woe  — 

Woe  that  the  Book  of  Life  might  scarce  assuage  ; 

The  tremulous  voice  was  dumb,  and  the  white  flow 
Of  reverend  locks  swept  not  the  sacred  page. 

Oft  had  that  man  of  God,  while  living,  said, 
"  Wherefore,  my  children,  do  you  vainly  weep  ? 

The  friend  you  mourn  so  sadly  is  not  dead, 
But  only  fallen  in  the  Lord  asleep  I " 

For  he  had  preached,  with  zeal  that  would  not  cease, 
Christ  and  the  resurrection,  not  in  vain ; 

For,  like  a  benediction  full  of  peace. 

Came  the  blest  memory  to  the  weeping  train. 

And  they  rose  up  with  souls  less  sadly  dim. 

Young  men,  and  maidens,  and  the  bowed  with  care. 

Feeling  that  death  had  only  been  to  him 
God's  hour  of  answer  to  a  life  of  prayer. 


HYMN   OF   THE   TRUE   MAN. 

Peace  to  the  True  Man's  ashes  !     Weep  for  those 
Whose  days  in  old  delusions  have  grown  dim : 

Such  lives  as  his  are  triumphs,  and  their  close 
An  immortality.     Weep  not  for  him. 

As  feathers  wafted  from  the  eagle's  wings 

Lie  bright  among  the  rocks  they  cannot  warm, 

So  lie  the  flowery  lays  that  Genius  brings, 
In  the  cold  turf  that  wraps  his  honored  form. 

A  practical  rebuker  of  vain  strife. 

Bolder  in  deeds  than  words,  from  beardless  youth 
To  the  white  hairs  of  age,  he  made  his  life 

A  beautiful  consecration  to  the  Truth. 

Virtue,  neglected  long,  and  trampled  down. 
Grew  stronger  in  the  echo  of  his  name ; 

And,  shrinking  self-condemned  beneath  his  frown, 
The  cheek  of  harlotry  grew  red  with  shame. 


52  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

Serene  with  conscious  peace,  he  strewed  his  way 
With  sweet  humanities,  the  growth  of  love  ; 

Shaping  to  right  his  actions,  day  by  day. 
Faithful  to  this  world  and  to  that  above. 

The  ghosts  of  blind  belief  and  hideous  crime. 
Of  spirit-broken  loves  and  hopes  betrayed, 

That  flit  among  the  broken  walls  of  Time, 
Are  by  the  True  Man's  exorcisms  laid. 

Blest  is  his  life  who  to  himself  is  true. 

And  blest  his  death  — for  memory,  when  he  dies. 

Comes,  with  a  lover's  eloquence,  to  renew 
Our  faith  in  manhood's  upward  tendencies. 

Weep  for  the  self -abased,  and  for  the  slave, 

And  for  God's  children  darkened  with  the  smoke 

Of  the  red  altar  —  not  for  him  whose  grave 
Is  greener  than  the  mistletoe  of  the  oak. 


HYMK   OF   THE   STUDENT   OF  NATUEE. 

.     **  I  have  learned  to  lean  on  my  own  soul,  and  not  to  look  elsewhere 
for  the  reeds  that  a  wind  can  break."  —  Bulwer. 

I  KNOW  my  humble  lineage  —  that  my  way 
Has  led  among  life's  valleys,  and  does  still ; 

But  destiny  is  as  the  potter's  clay. 

And  we  can  make  it  glorious  if  we  will ! 

Smiles  settled  on  the  lips  of  one  who  died 
In  the  quick  tortures  of  a  fiery  bed ; 

And  they  by  less  severe  ordeals  tried 
May  surely  to  an  equal  strength  be  wed. 

True,  many  that  I  deemed  my  friends  are  gone. 
But,  Nature,  thou  at  least  wilt  still  be  kind ; 

For  from  thy  naked  bosom  I  have  drawn 
The  sweetest  draughts  I  ever  hope  to  find. 


LIFE'S  ANGELS.  63 

Out  in  the  tents  of  summer  I  have  heard 
Music  that  made  me  happy,  not  of  art, 

But  the  wild  song  of  some  sweet-throated  bird, 
That  flowed,  as  all  things  best  do,  from  the  heart. 

I  will  not  chase  the  phantoms  that  are  fled, 
Nor  like  a  love-sick  dreamer  pray  to  die, 

Though  I  may  have  no  shelter  for  my  head 
But  the  blue  curtain  of  God's  equal  sky. 

But  in  some  flowery  nook,  away  from  care, 

Fanning  *  my  heart  down  to  a  pulse  more  even, 

I  '11  build  me  beautiful  palaces  of  air 

For  my  soul's  children,  beings  sweet  as  heaven. 

And  these  shall  be  my  friends,  for  friends  like  these 
Can  trouble  with  no  yearning  to  depart. 

And  the  cold  kisses  of  the  mountain  breeze 
Wake  not  the  tale  of  Indusf  in  the  heart ! 


LIFE'S   ANGELS. 

O  STILL,  and  dumb,  and  silent  Earth, 
Unlock  thy  dim  and  pulseless  arms; 

Wandering  and  weary  from  her  birth. 

Thy  child  seeks  refuge  from  life's  storms ! 

Still  from  my  heart  a  shadow  lifts, 

And  through  my  soul  a  lost  voice  thrills. 

As  the  soft  starlight's  golden  drifts 
Sweep  nightly  o'er  the  western  hills. 

Life  has  its  angels,  though  unkept 

The  lovelight  which  their  beauty  brings. 

And  though  the  blue  heavens  are  not  swept 
With  the  white  radiance  of  their  wings. 


'&"■ 


*  Corrected  to  "  Taming  "  in  Boston  Public  Library  copy, 
t  Corrected  to  "  Judas  "  in  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


54  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

But  a  dark  shadow — not  the  grave's  — 
Has  clasped  the  one  I  love  from  me, 

And  winds  have  built  their  walls  of  wave  * 
Between  us  in  the  eternal  sea. 

I  dare  not  drink  the  mantling  cup, 

Nor  light  the  shrine  in  Love's  sweet  name, 

Lest  from  the  dark  be  lifted  up 

Pale  hands  to  smother  down  the  flame. 

The  music  on  the  lip  of  morn, 

Wings  glancing  on  the  summer  air, 

Love's  rose-crown  —  all  things  earthly  born  — 
Are  links  that  bind  me  to  despair. 

Whene'er  the  fires  of  sunset's  glow 

Stream  bright  across  some  silver  cloud, 

I  think  about  the  wavy  flow    . 

Of  long  loose  tresses  o'er  the  shroud. 

No  more  I  tremble  with  sweet  awe. 
For  all  life's  shining  waves  grow  dim, 

When  there  one  burning  star  I  saw 
Quench  its  bright  axle  to  the  rim. 

Borne  down  and  weary  with  life's  storms, 
0  Earth,  receive  me  to  thy  breast ; 

Unlock  thy  dim  and  pulseless  arms. 
And  cool  this  burning  heart  to  rest. 


THE   PILGRIM. 

The  child  of  an  Eternal  Sire ! 

Great  waves  of  burning  desert  sand 
And  mountains  with  their  tongues  of  fire 

Are  but  as  dew-drops  in  His  hand. 

O'ershadowed  by  the  gallows  tree, 
And  moaning  like  the  hunted  Jew, 

*  Probably  a  misprint  for  "  wall  of  waves." 


THE   PILGRIM.  65 

Our  guilt  is  like  a  mighty  sea, 

With  God's  sweet  mercy  shining  through ! 

How  deep  that  mercy,  and  how  wide ! 

The  child  of  lost  and  recreant  years 
Can  in  a  Father's  bosom  hide 

His  sins,  his  sorrows,  and  his  tears! 

Once,  when  the  noontide's  fervid  rays 

Like  sickles  in  the  dim  grass  lay, 
Bent  forward  on  his  staff  to  gaze 

For  the  loved  city  far  away,  — 

I  crossed  a  pilgrim,  and  I  knew, 

jNIore  by  an  instinct  of  the  soul 
Than  by  his  white  hairs,  thin  and  few, 

That  he  might  never  reach  the  goal. 

And  when  I  saw  him  onward  start, 

With  fainter  hope,  and  step  more  slow, 

God  knoweth  that  wdthin  my  heart 

The  measure  could  have  gauged  his  woe ! 

For  I  have  seen  all  sad  above, 

And  all  below  in  bitterest  strife, 
When  e'en  the  planet  of  my  love 

Sat  darkly  in  my  house  of  life. 

And  sometimes,  my  poor  bleeding  feet 
Far  from  the  cooling  fountain  wave, 

I  've  thought  no  shadow  half  so  sweet 
As  that  which  darkened  o'er  the  grave ! 

The  temples,  palaces,  and  towers 

Of  the  old  time  I  may  not  see, 
Nor  'neath  my  reverent  tread  thy  flowers 

Bend  meekly  down,  Gethsemane  ! 

By  Jordan's  wave  I  may  not  stand, 

Nor  climb  the  hills  of  Galilee, 
Nor  break  with  my  poor  sinful  hand 

The  crosier  of  apostasy ! 


56  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Nor  pitch  my  tent  'neath  Salem's  sky, 
As  faith's  impassioned  fervor  bids, 

Nor  hear  the  wild  bird's  startled  cry 
From  Egypt's  awful  pyramids. 

I  have  not  stood,  and  may  not  stand 

Where  Hermon's  dews  the  blossoms  feed, 

Nor  where  the  flint-sparks  light  the  sand 
Beneath  the  Arab  lancer's  steed. 

Woe  for  the  dark  thread  in  my  lot. 
That  still  hath  kept  my  feet  away 

From  pressing  toward  the  hallowed  spot 
Where  Mary  and  the  young  child  lay. 

But  oh !  I  thank  the  gracious  Power, 
That  I,  in  nature's  ponderous  tome, 

Can  find  a  splendor  in  the  flower, 
A  glory  in  the  stars  of  home. 

And  haply  o'er  those  planets  bright. 
That  in  the  blue  vault  nightly  spring. 

Are  farther  worlds  of  larger  light, 
Each  counted  as  a  little  thing 

By  Him,  who  day's  wide  splendor  planned. 
And  gave,  to  glorify  the  night, 

Those  visible  jewels  of  His  hand  — 
Saying  at  first,  Let  there  be  light ! 

But  with  great  systems  for  His  care. 
Beyond  the  farthest  star  we  see, 

He  bends  to  hear  the  pleading  prayer 
Of  every  sinful  child  like  me. 

And  in  the  ashes  of  the  fears 

That  darken  o'er  the  closing  strife. 

Faith,  with  her  soft  eyes  full  of  tears,    " 
Strews  blossoms  from  the  Tree  of  Life. 


PITIED   LOVE.  57 

PITIED    LOVE.* 

Faintly  the  sunset's  sinking  fires 

Redden  the  waters,  and  above 
Tip  the  gray  oaken  boughs  like  spires, 

While,  struggling  like  despair  with  love, 

Are  rustling  shadows  dropt  with  gold. 
Deepening  and  nearing  with  the  night, 

Until  at  length  they  close,  and  fold 
In  their  embrace  the  fainting  light. 

Up  from  the  river  blue  mists  curl, 
The  dew  shines  in  the  vale  below. 

And  overhead,  like  beads  of  pearl, 
The  white  buds  of  the  mistletoe. 

Lo !  while  the  shade  and  light  ingrain, 

A  dryad  dweller  of  the  tree, 
Like  the  hushed  murmur  of  soft  pain, 

Is  pouring  its  sweet  note  for  thee. 

Lone  one,  beneath  whose  drooping  head 
The  red  leaves  of  the  autumn  lie,  — 

The  winds  have  stooped  to  make  that  bed, 
0  lonesome  watcher  of  the  sky ! 

Lifting  his  head  a  little  up 

From  the  poor  pillow  where  it  lay, 

And  pushing  from  his  forehead  pale 
The  long  damp  tresses  all  away : 

He  told  me,  with  the  eager  haste 

Of  one  who  dare  not  trust  his  words, 

He  knew  a  mortal  with  a  voice 
As  low  and  lovely  as  that  bird's. 

But  that  he  saw  once  ifi  a  dell 
Separate  from  that  a  weary  space, 

A  pale,  meek  lily,  that  as  well 

Might  woo  that  old  oak's  green  embrace, 

*The  author  acknowledges  her  indebtedness  to  Coleridge  for  one  or  two  passages 
\n\h\iY>o&m.— Author^s  Note.  .     .  r       r      -o 


58  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

As  for  his  heart  to  hope  that  she. 

Whose  palace  chamber  ne'er  grew  dim, 

Would  leave  the  loves  of  royalty 

To  wander  through  the  world  with  him. 

Once,  leaping  in  a  murderous  cave 
He  saved  her  from  an  outlaw  band, 

And  with  such  tenderness  she  chid 
When  twice  he  kissed  her  lily  hand. 

With  the  sweet  burden  as  he  flew, 
He  dared  to  gaze  upon  her  face, 

And  she  forgave  him,  though  he  drew 
Closer  and  closer  the  embrace. 

Why  shook  the  fair  form  with  alarm  ? 

The  proud  Earl  Say  to  meet  her  came, 
And  shrinking  from  that  boyish  arm, 

Her  cheek  grew  darkly  red  with  shame ! 

And  he,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did. 
But  feeling  that  his  heart  was  broke. 

Fled  from  her  pitying  glance,  and  hid 
In  the  cold  shadows  of  that  oak ; 

Where,  as  he  said,  she  came  at  night 
And  clasped  him  from  the  bitter  air, 

With  her  soft  arms  of  tender  white. 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  her  hair. 

But  when  the  morning  lit  the  spray. 

And  hung  its  soft  wreaths  o'er  his  head, 

The  lovely  lady  passed  away 

Through  mist  of  glory,  pale  and  red. 

So  bitter  grew  his  heaving  sighs. 

So  mournful  dark  the  glance  he  raised, 

I  looked  upon  him  earnestly. 

And  saw  the  gentle  boy  was  crazed ! 

How  fair  he  was  !  it  made  me  sad, 
And  soft  as  sad  my  bosom  grew, 


ALONE  BY   THE    TOMB.  59 

To  think  no  earthly  hand  could  build 
That  beautiful  ruin  up  anew. 

But  pointing  where  the  full  moon's  light 

Lay  redly  on  the  village  hills, 
I  told  him  that  my  hearth  that  night 

Was  brighter :  —  How  my  bosom  thrills, 

Remembering  how  he  hid  his  face 
In  earth's  cold  bosom,  cold  and  bare. 

And  told  me  of  the  warm  embrace 
That  meekly,  sweetly  kept  him  there. 

Closer  the  dismal  raven  croaks  — 

Flutters  the  wild-bird  nigh  and  nigher  — 

A  colder  shadow  than  the  oak's 

Has  stilled  that  bosom's  pulse  of  fire. 


ALONE    BY   THE   TOMB. 

Where  solemn  and  heavy  the  shadow 
Of  the  old  gray  church  is  spread, 

And  the  grass  is  crushed  down  and  faded, 
I  muse  on  the  early  dead. 

Not  the  voiceless  peace  of  my  chamber, 
Nor  the  song,  nor  the  hearth  of  light, 

Nor  the  vistas  of  golden  visions. 
Could  quiet  my  soul  to-night. 

I  would  think  of  the  meekness  and  beauty 

Of  gentle  and  noiseless  lives, 
And  not  of  the  thwarted  endeavor 

Of  the  spirit  that  hopes  and  strives. 

Of  the  sweetness  of  household  duty  ; 

Of  the  loves  that  never  depart ; 
And  not  of  the  plummet  of  agony, 

Sounding  the  depths  of  the  heart. 


60  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

The  starlight  is  dimly  burning 

In  the  leaves,  but  the  birds  are  still, 

And  no  light  gleams  from  the  chambers, 
Narrow,  and  low,  and  chill. 

I  can  hear  the  dull  bat  flitting. 

And  the  wind  in  the  chancel  moan  — 

O  how  can  my  feet  walk  firmly 
The  valley  of  shade  alone ! 

Sole  friend  of  my  heart,  be  with  me 
In  the  time  of  the  parting  strife, 

And  read  me  the  simple  story 

Of  the  Cross,  from  the  Book  of  Life. 

'T  will  strengthen  me  more  than  the  greenness 

Of  the  rosied  hills  above. 
To  die  on  that  pillow  of  beauty  — 

The  bosom  of  faithful  love. 


TWO  VISIONS. 

I  SAW  a  shadow  through  the  sunshine  pass, 

Bright  and  unsteady,  but  without  a  sound, 
As  a  sleek  serpent  might  divide  the  grass. 

Writhing  and  quivering  with  a  mortal  wound ; 
So  came  the  thing,  or  shadow,  nigh  and  nigher  — 

But  my  eyes,  weary  with  excess  of  pain, 
Could  tell  not  whether  scales  or  sparks  of  fire 

Glistened  and  glinted  on  its  tortuous  train. 

'T  was  gone,  and  where  it  vanished  from  my  view 

I  saw  a  red  and  horrible  mist  arise. 
And  as  it  drifted  thinly,  straining  through 

The  fixed  and  ghastly  shining  of  dead  eyes. 

And  there  were  worms  of  shifting  hues  that  lay 
Catching  the  radiance  of  the  sinking  sun. 

As  sick  to  dizzy  death  I  turned  away, 

Loosening  a  helm,  close  where  a  fountain  run 


TWO    VISIONS.  61 

There  was  a  woman  with  pale  woe  distressed, 

'Neath  her  long  tresses,  damp  with  evening's  breath, 

Clasping  a  youth  all  softly,  whose  torn  breast 
Was  crimson  with  the  bitter  blood  of  death. 

And  as  she  looked  upon  him,  her  sweet  eyes 

Grew  moist  with  tenderer  sorrow  than  might  suit 

The  severance  of  worn  and  common  ties  ; 

But  though  her  frail  frame  shook,  her  lips  were  mute. 

He  died,  and  rude  men  covered  him  away 

From  her  embraces,  with  the  common  dust ; 
And  though  her  cheek  grew  whiter  than  the  spray 

Of  the  vexed  ocean,  she  forebore  to  trust 
Her  sorrow  to  the  consonance  of  words ; 

But,  weaving  up  his  name  with  her  sad  song  — 
A  broken  warble  like  a  wounded  bird's  — 

She  passed  unconsciously  the  worshipping  throng. 

But  of  her  sufferings  the  elaborate  tale 

Were  a  dark  story  that  I  cannot  write  ; 
Enough  that  in  the  thin  grass  of  a  vale 

Quiet  and  lonesome,  azure-leaved  and  white, 
The  violets  are  spreading  o'er  two  graves. 

One  newer  than  the  other.     When  the  fold 
Of  a  bright  banner  to  wild  music  waves, 

I  think  about  those  locks  of  paley  gold, 
Like  the  dissolving  beam  of  a  faint  star  ; 

And  of  the  dying  heart  they  clasped  away 
From  the  red  shadow  of  the  wing  of  war. 

So  strong  of  my  strange  vision  is  the  sway. 

There  was  a  murmur  through  the  shaken  plumes 

Of  the  green  forest,  and  along  the  sea. 
O'er  the  iced  mountains,  through  the  cavern  glooms, 

Touching  the  lost  heart  of  humanity. 
'T  was  like  the  voice  of  a  hair-girdled  John 

In  the  dim  wilderness  crying,  Prepare  the  way, 
That  the  blind  children  of  men  may  look  upon 

The  shining  glories  of  the  risen  day. 

His  cold  dissecting-knife  in  Nature's  breast, 

Unlocking  the  joints  and  laying  the  arteries  bare, 


62  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Of  hidden  knowledge  limited  not  the  guest,* 

But  with  their  pale  smile  in  his  silver  hair, 
He  cross-examined  the  stars,  resolved  the  plans 

Of  their  far  orbits,  difficult  and  vast ; 
And  in  the  charnel,  loosening  the  bands, 

Wrenched  the  dark  secrets  from  the  unanswering  past. 
And  when  that  soul  of  fire  its  aim  had  gained, 

Conning  to  wisdom  even  the  martyr's  blood, 
With  the  soft  links  of  love  mankind  were  chained 

Into  one  universal  brotherhood. 

In  the  sweet  pauses  of  the  heart  of  prayer 

The  air  was  full  of  music,  meek  as  mild. 
The  light  wind  drifting  back  the  golden  hair 

From  her  white  bosom,  sat  a  little  child. 
And  the  wild  warble  of  the  morning  bird 

Was  hushed  in  its  melodious  throat,  to  trace 
The  windings  of  her  song,  while  all  who  heard 

Pined  for  the  beauty  of  her  soft  embrace. 

Down  to  the  stony  floor  of  the  blue  sea 

Sunk  the  dim  ghost  of  suffering  and  crime ; 

And  he  of  the  white  tresses  bent  the  knee 
In  reverent  worship  of  the  type  sublime. 


LOST   DILLIE. 

Don't  you  remember  the  old  apple  tree 

That  grew  in  the  edge  of  the  meadow ; 
And  the  maiden  whose  thitherward  straying  with  me 

Threw  over  the  sward  but  one  shadow  ? 
Was  it  the  blush  of  the  apples  that  over  us  hung, 

Which  threw  o'er  her  cheek  its  soft  splendor ; 
And  the  wild  birds  around  us  that  lovingly  sung, 

Which  made  her  low  warble  so  tender  ? 

You  remember  the  bridal-time,  bright  with  the  flow 

Of  the  cup  as  deceitful  as  cheery. 
And  the  neat  little  cabin-home,  always  aglow 

With  the  sweet  smile  of  Dillie,  my  dearie ! 

*  Corrected  to  "  quest "  in  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


PICTURES   OF  MEMORY.  63 

When  the  wine  smothered  love's  passionate  flame, 
Her  blue  eyes  droo})ed  mournful  and  lowly ; 

How  sadly  she  watched  for  the  footstep  that  came 
Each  night-time  more  slowly  and  slowly ! 

The  path  going  down  to  the  apple  tree  still 

Winds  over  the  slope  of  the  meadow ; 
The  dear  little  cabin  peeps  over  the  hill  — 

But  the  roses  run  wild  in  its  shadow  ! 
Don't  you  remember  the  ivy-grown  church 

We  used  to  tliink  lonesome  and  dreary  ? 
Beneath  the  blue  marble,  just  under  the  birch, 

Lies  Dillie,  lost  Dillie,  my  dearie ! 


PICTURES   OF   MEMORY.* 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all : 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe  ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below. 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams. 

And  stealing  their  shining  edge ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  be. 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip. 

It  seemeth  the  best  to  me. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother. 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep  — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep  : 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers. 

The  summers  of  long  ago ; 

*  Given  here  as  reprinted  in  the  volume  of  1S55. 


^4  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 
And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 

I  made  for  my  little  brother 
A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face  : 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright. 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  old  dim  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


THE   TWO   MISSIONAEIES. 

In  the  pyramid's  heavy  shadows, 

And  by  the  Nile's  deep  flood, 
They  leaned  on  the  arm  of  Jesus, 

And  preached  to  the  multitude : 
Where  only  the  ostrich  and  parrot 

Went  by  on  the  burning  sands, 
They  builded  to  God  an  altar, 

Lifting  up  holy  hands. 

But  even  while  kneeling  lowly 

At  the  foot  of  the  cross  to  pray, 
Eternity's  shadows  slowly 

Stole  over  their  pilgrim  way: 
And  one,  with  the  journey  weary. 

And  faint  with  the  spirit's  strife, 
Eell  sweetly  asleep  in  Jesus, 

Hard  by  the  gates  of  life. 

Oh,  not  in  Gethsemane's  garden. 
And  not  by  Genesareth's  wave. 

The  light,  like  a  golden  mantle, 
O'erspreadeth  his  lowly  grave ; 


LEILA.  65 

But  the  bird  of  the  burning  desert 

Goes  by  with  a  noiseless  tread,- 
And  the  tent  of  the  restless  Arab 

Is  silently  near  him  spread. 

Oh,  could  we  remember  only, 

Who  shrink  from  the  slightest  ill, 
His  sorrows,  who,  bruised  and  lonely, 

Wrought  on  in  the  vineyard  still  — 
Surely  the  tale  of  sorrow 

Would  fall  on  the  mourner's  breast, 
Hushing,  like  oil  on  the  waters, 

The  troubled  wave  to  rest. 


LEILA.* 


Gone  from  us  hast  thou,  in  thy  girlish  hours. 

What  time  the  tenderest  blooms  of  summer  cease ; 

In  thy  young  bosom  bearing  life's  pale  flowers 
To  the  sweet  city  of  eternal  peace. 

In  the  soft  stops  of  silver  singing  rain. 
Faint  be  the  falling  of  the  pale-rose  light 

O'er  thy  meek  slumber,  wrapt  away  from  pain 
In  the  fair  robes  of  dainty  bridal  white. 

Seven  nights  the  stars  have  wandered  through  the  blue, 
Since  thou  to  larger,  holier  life  wert  born ; 

And  day  as  often,  sandalled  with  gray  dew. 
Has  trodden  out  the  golden  fires  of  morn. 

Oft,  ere  the  dim  waves  of  the  sea  of  woe 

Clasp  the  green  shore  of  immortality. 
Life,  like  a  planet  cursed,  lays  down  its  glow 

And  blindly  wanders  o'er  immensity. 

And,  from  thy  starless  passage  and  untried. 
Faith  shrank  alarmed  at  feeble  nature's  cry. 

Ere  yet  life's  broken  waves  had  multiplied 
The  intense  radiance  of  eternity. 

*  Compare  with  "Leilia." 


6Q  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

But  now,  on  every  sunbeam  leaning  bright 

Across  the  white  mists,  trembling  o'er  the  sea, 

My  soul  goes  forth,  as  on  a  path  of  light. 
Questioning  all  things  beautiful  of  thee. 

Nor  shall  distrust  or  doubt  my  spirit  move. 
Doomed  though  it  be  the  seal  of  woe  to  wear ; 

Since  the  blest  memory  of  deathless  love 
Stands  like  a  star  between  me  and  despair. 


THE   HANDMAID.* 

AVhy  rests  a  shadow  on  her  woman's  heart  ? 

In  life's  more  girlish  hours  it  was  not  so ; 
111  hath  she  learned  to  hide  with  harmless  art 

The  soundings  of  the  pkimmet-line  of  woe ! 

Oh  what  a  world  of  tenderness  looks  through 
The  melting  sapphire  of  her  mournful  eyes ; 

Less  softly-moist  are  violets  full  of  dew, 
And  the  delicious  color  of  the  skies. 

Serenely  amid  worship  doth  she  move, 

Counting  its  passionate  tenderness  as  dross ; 

And  tempering  the  pleadings  of  earth's  love. 
In  the  still,  solemn  shadows  of  the  cross. 

It  is  not  that  her  heart  is  cold  or  vain. 

That  thus  she  moves  through  many  worshippers ; 
No  step  is  lighter  by  the  couch  of  pain. 

No  hand  on  fever's  brow  lies  soft  as  hers. 

From  the  loose  flowing  of  her  amber  hair 
The  summer  flowers  we  long  ago  unknit, 

As  something  between  joyance  and  despair 
Came  in  the  chamber  of  her  soul  to  sit. 

In  her  white  cheek  the  crimson  bnrns  as  faint 
As  red  doth  in  some  cold  star's  chastened  beam ; 

*  Eepriuted  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


THE  POOR.  67 

The  tender  meekness  of  the  pitying  saint 
Lends  all  her  life  the  beauty  of  a  dream. 

Thus  doth  she  move  among  us  day  by  day, 
Loving  and  loved  ;  but  passion  cannot  move 

The  young  heart  that  has  wrapped  itself  away 
In  the  soft  mantle  of  a  Saviour's  love ! 


THE   POOR. 


Cradled  in  poverty  —  unloved,  alone. 
Seeing  far  off  the  wave  of  gladness  roll ; 

Sorrow,  to  happier  fortune  never  known, 

Strikes  deep  its  poison-roots  within  the  soul ! 

What  need  is  there  for  rhetoric  to  seek 
For  the  fine  phrase  of  eloquence,  to  tell 

Of  the  eye  sunken,  and  the  hueless  cheek. 

Where  naked  want  and  gnawing  hunger  dwell  ? 

Down  in  the  lanes  and  alleys  of  life's  mart 
Are  beds  of  anguish  that  no  kind  hands  tend ; 

And  friendless  wanderers,  without  map  or  chart, 
Urged  to  despair,  or,  worse,  a  nameless  end ! 

Their  very  smiles  are  bitter,  in  whose  track 
The  fountains  are  with  penury  made  chill ; 

For  by  their  smiles,  their  sighs  are  driven  back 
To  stifle  in  the  heart-strings,  and  be  still ! 

The  poor  are  criminals  !     The  opulent  man 
Is  unsuspected,  and  must  needs  be  true ; 

Such  is  the  popular  verdict,  such  the  plan 

That  gives  the  loathsome  hangman  work  to  do ! 

If  he  who  treads  the  convict's  gloomy  cell. 

To  soothe  Heaven's  vengeance  with  officious  prayer, 

Had  dealt  as  kindly  with  him  ere  he  fell. 
Haply  his  presence  had  been  needless  there ! 


68  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Oh  there  is  need  of  union,  firm  and  strong, 
Of  effort  vigorous  and  directed  well ; 

To  rescue  weakness  from  oppressive  wrong 

Would  shake  the  deep  foundations  of  dark  hell ! 

Dear  are  the  humble  in  God's  equal  sight, 
And  every  hair  upon  their  heads  He  sees, 

Even  as  the  laurel  freshening  in  the  light, 
That  trails  along  the  path  of  centuries ! 

Then  treat  them  kindly,  for  the  selfsame  hand, 
(And  with  as  large  an  exercise  of  power,) 

That  makes  the  planets  in  their  order  stand, 
Gives  its  meek  beauty  to  the  desert  flower. 


HEAVEN   ON   EARTH. 

Oh,  in  this  beautiful  world  I  fain  would  deem 
Some  things,  at  least,  are  what  they  seem  to  me ; 

That  deepest  joy  is  no  ideal  dream, 

Linking  the  thought  to  something  yet  to  be. 

That  in  the  living  present,  we  can  find 

Enough  to  smooth  the  way  beneath  our  feet,  — 

That  where  heart  blends  with  heart  and  mind  with  mind, 
Even  life's  bitterest  bitter  hath  a  sweet ! 

I  've  dreamed  of  heaven  —  the  full  and  perfect  bliss 

That  waits  the  spirit  in  a  larger  sphere ; 
And,  looking  up,  have  found  enough  in  this 

To  realize  the  rapturous  vision  here ! 

God  hath  made  all  things  beautiful  —  the  sky. 
The  common  earth,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade; 

And  with  affections  that  can  never  die. 
Hath  gifted  every  creature  He  hath  made. 

Oh  they  but  mock  us  with  a  hollow  lie. 

Who  made  this  goodly  land  a  vale  of  tears ; 

For  if  the  soul  hath  immortality, 

This  is  the  infancy  of  deathless  years. 


FAR   AWAY.  69 

And  if  we  live  as  God  has  given  ns  power, 

Heaven  is  begun :  no  blind  fatality 
Can  shut  the  living  soul  from  its  high  dower 

Of  shaping  out  a  glorious  destiny  ! 


EAR   AWAY. 


Far  away,  far  away,  there  's  a  region  of  bliss 

Too  bright  for  our  vision  to  view. 
Though  faintly  its  glories  are  mirrored  in  this, 

As  the  light  of  the  stars  in  the  dew. 

The  loved  and  the  loving  of  life's  early  day, 

Who  left  us  in  sorrow  and  gloom. 
Are  all  in  that  beautiful  land,  far  away, 

Where  the  roses  are  always  in  bloom. 

'T  is  true  we  have  moments  of  bliss,  even  here. 

But  brief  is  the  shadowless  sky ; 
Por  hope,  when  the  brightest,  is  mingled  with  fear. 

And  to  live,  is  to  know  we  must  die. 

The  sunshine  is  followed  by  darkness  and  storm, 

And  friendship  endures  but  a  day, 
And,  oh !  while  the  kiss  of  devotion  is  warm, 

The  loved  and  the  trusted  betray. 

How  oft,  when  the  bride  with  her  garland  is  crown'd, 

The  roses  are  brought  from  the  grave ! 
And  the  sunniest  fountain  that  ever  I  found 

Had  the  serpent  concealed  in  its  wave. 

Then  why  should  I  mourn  thee,  lost  friend  of  my  soul  ? 

Death  cannot  divide  us  for  aye. 
Though  dark  are  the  billows  between  us  that  roll. 

We  ^11  meet  in  that  home  far  away. 


70  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 


THE   BETTER   LAND. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  roses  and  lilies 

Are  bright  on  the  hills,  as  the  wing  of  a  bird,  — 

Where  down  in  the  depths  of  the  beautiful  valleys 
The  song  of  the  worshipper  always  is  heard  ? 

'T  is  up  where  they  mourn  not  o'er  time  and  its  fleetness, 
But,  free  from  the  cumbering  cries  *  of  the  clod, 

Their  songs  are  the  chains  that  in  rapturous  sweetness 
Link  men  to  the  angels,  and  angels  to  God ! 

Sometimes  with  the  eve  in  her  starry  tiara 
And  mantle  of  gold  sitting  down  in  the  west, 

Like  echoes  of  harps  from  a  far-away  prairie, 
Faint  melodies  float  from  the  land  of  the  blest. 

And  sometimes,  when  sighing  for  one  who  would  love  me 
And  share  with  me  always  in  sadness  or  glee, 

I  see,  from  a  soft  island  floating  above  me, 
A  pale  hand  of  beauty  that  beckons  to  me ! 


FIRST   LOVE. 


Father  of  light,  thy  child  recall, 

She  hath  known  of  earthly  bliss  the  all  ; 

She  hath  loved  and  been  beloved.  —  Schiller. 

Come  with  me,  dear  one,  from  these  haunted  dells ! 

Still  doth  she  linger,  oh !  so  sad  and  meek  ; 
Though  joy  no  more  her  maiden  bosom  swells. 

Nor  kissing  zephyr  crimsons  her  white  cheek. 

In  the  cool  shade  of  my  delicious  bower 

This  mournful  whisper  of  the  past  shall  cease ; 

There  will  I  fold  thee  to  my  heart,  pale  flower ; 
Come,  lovely  trembler,  give  thyself  to  peace. 

Sweet-throated  birds  with  glowing  wings  are  there, 
Filling  the  woods  with  beauty  all  day  long ; 

♦  Corrected  to  "  cares  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


THE    MILL-MAID.  71 

How  softly  thou  wilt  swim  away  from  care, 
Upon  the  charmed  wave  of  some  blest  song. 

Faintly  her  young  heart  trembles,  and  the  fringe 
Lifts  from  the  dewy  wells  of  her  clear  eyes : 

Her  thin  cheek  deepens  to  a  pale  rose  tinge  — 

And  doth  she  love  him  ?     Hush !  that  look  replies. 

The  golden  tissue  of  love's  web  was  crossed 

With  a  dark  sorrow,  in  this  very  vale ; 
Gone  is  the  beautiful  dream,  its  love-light  lost. 

The  winding  sheet  were  scarcely  now  so  pale. 

And  the  sweet,  passionate  pleading  all  is  vain, 
Young  wooer,  of  the  eloquent  lip  and  eye; 

Her  heart  clings  closer  to  its  tender  pain 
If  joy  but  whisper ;  leave  her,  then,  to  die. 

For  still  she  lingers  in  this  haunted  spot. 
The  light  wind  playing  with  her  yellow  hair. 

And  nestling  to  her  cheek,  she  heeds  it  not ; 

Then  leave,  oh !  leave  her  —  all  her  world  is  there  ! 


THE   MILL-MAID.* 

Now  comb  her  golden  hair  away ; 

Meekly  and  sorrow-laden 
She  waited  for  the  closing  day  — 

Poor  broken-hearted  maiden! 
The  ring  from  off  her  finger  slip, 

And  fold  her  hands  together ; 
No  more  love's  music  on  her  lip 

Will  tremble  like  a  feather. 

Each  Sabbath-time  along  the  aisle 
Her  step  more  faintly  sounded. 

The  light  grew  paler  in  her  smile, 
Her  cheek  less  softly  rounded ; 

♦  Reprinted  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


72  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

But  never  sank  we  in  despair 
Till  with  that  fearful  crying, 

"  The  mill-maid  of  the  golden  hair 
And  lily  hand  is  dying !  " 

When  the  dim  shadows  of  the  birch 

Above  her  rest  are  swaying, 
The  pastor  of  the  village  church 

Shall  bless  the  place  with  praying: 
Deeming  the  voiceless  sacrifice 

A  loved  and  lovely  blossom. 
Blown  by  the  winds  of  Paradise 

To  Jesu's  folding  bosom. 

The  mill-wheel  for  a  day  is  still, 

The  spindle  silent  lying, 
The  little  homestead  on  the  hill 

Looks  sadder  for  her  dying ; 
But  ere  the  third  time  in  the  spire 

The  Sabbath  bell  is  ringing, 
Not  one  of  all  the  village  choir 

Will  miss  the  mill-maid's  singing. 


LOVE. 


Nay,  do  not  pity  me,  that  not  a  star 

Hangs  in  the  bosom  of  my  stormy  sky, 
Nor  winglet  of  white  feathers  flutters  by. 
Nor  like  a  soft  dream  swims  or  near  or  far 

The  golden  atmosphere  of  poesy. 
Down  in  the  heart  from  frivolous  joys  aloof 

Burn  the  pale  lires,  whose  keen  intensity 
Flames  through  the  web  of  life's  discolored  woof, 

And  lights  the  white  walls  of  eternity. 
Alas  !  the  ravishment  of  Love's  sweet  trust 

May  charm  my  life  no  more  to  passion's  glow ; 
Nor  the  light  kisses  of  a  lip  of  dust 

Crimson  my  forehead  with  the  seal  of  woe ; 
Well,  were  it  otherwise,  't  is  better  so ! 


THE   CHARMED  BIRD.  73 


DEATH. 


With  your  pale  burden,  gently,  gently  tread  — 

She  came  to  us  a  bride  a  year  ago 
And  now  Love's  sweet  star  crimsons  the  pale  snow, 
About  her  early,  melancholy  bed. 
Why  weep  ye  for  her  ?     She  hath  done  with  pain, 

And  meekly  to  our  common  portion  bowed. 
Unthread  the  roses  from  the  shining  train 

Of  her  long  tresses,  and  prepare  the  shroud ! 
Her  heart  was  full  of  dreams  of  heavenly  birth, 

While  in  the  borders  of  dim  life  she  stayed, 

Like  some  young  lily  golden  dews  had  weighed 
Down  to  the  chilly  bosom  of  the  earth. 
For  but  the  wing  of  death,  while  here  she  trod, 
Eested  between  her  beautiful  life  and  God. 


THE  CHAEMED  BIRD. 

"  Mother,  oh  mother  !  this  morning  when  Will 

And  Mary  and  I  had  gone  out  on  the  hill, 

We  stopped  in  the  orchard  to  climb  in  the  trees. 

And  brake  off  the  blossoms  that  sweetened  the  breeze, 

When  right  down  before  us,  and  close  where  we  were. 

There  fluttered  and  fluttered  a  bird  in  the  air. 

"  Its  crest  was  so  glossy,  so  bright  were  its  eyes, 

And  its  wings,  oh !  their  color  was  just  like  the  skies ; 

And  still  as  it  chirped,  and  kept  eddying  round 

In  narrower  circles  and  nearer  the  ground. 

We  looked,  and  all  hid  in  the  leaves  of  the  brake. 

We  saw,  don't  you  think,  oh !  the  ugliest  snake  !  " 

Caressingly  folding  the  child  in  her  arms, 
With  thoughts  of  sweet  birds  in  a  world  full  of  charms, 
"My  child,"  said  the  mother,  "in  life's  later  hours 
Remember  the  morning  you  stopped  for  the  flowers ; 
And  still  when  you  think  of  the  bird  in  the  air. 
Forget  not,  my  love,  that  the  serpent  was  there.'' 


74  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY, 


PRIDE. 

There  is  a  pride  of  heart,  a  damning  pride, 
To  which  men  sacrifice,  that  I  detest; 

And  Peter-like,  what  thousands  would  have  lied 
Even  with  profanation,  or  confessed 

The  Lord  of  glory  with  a  burning  cheek, 

If  Pilate  and  the  Rulers  heard  them  speak. 

Man  sees  his  weaker  brother  faint  and  die, 
And  coldly  passes  on  the  other  side ; 

Because  within  his  bosom  darkly  lie 

The  poisoned  shadows  of  that  Upas,  pride, 

Which,  since  from  bliss  the  rebel  angels  fell. 

Trail  downward  to  the  very  gates  of  hell ! 

When,  with  the  blushes  burning  on  her  cheek. 
And  her  dark  locks  unbound,  the  sinful  came. 

And  humbly  sat  herself  at  Jesus'  feet. 

Did  He  reproach  her  with  her  life  of  shame  ? 

But  for  the  many  who  aside  have  turned, 

How  hardly  is  that  beautiful  lesson  learned ! 


MISSIVE. 


Know  thou  this  truth,  which  the  creeds  cannot  smother, 
Wherever  man  is  found,  there  is  thy  brother ; 
God  his  blest  sire  is,  earth  is  his  mother  — 

Where  most  degraded,  thy  zeal  most  increase ; 
Aid  him  and  help  him,  till,  ceasing  to  falter, 
He  shall  come  up  to  humanity's  altar, 

"  Bearing  white  blocks  for  the  city  of  Peace.'^ 

Shrink  not  away  from  the  common  and  lowly  — 
Good  deeds,  though  never  so  humble,  are  holy ; 
And  though  the  recompense  fall  to  thee  slowly. 

Heroes  unnumbered  before  thee  have  trod; 
By  the  sweet  light  of  their  blessed  example. 
Work  on  —  the  field  of  love's  labor  is  ample  — 

Trusting  Humanity,  trusting  in  God  ! 


ONE  DEPARTED.  75 

Fight  down  the  Wrong,  howe'er  specious  its  bearing, 
Lighten  the  burdens  about  thee  by  sharing, 
Fear  not  the  glorious  peril  of  daring, 

Be  it  the  rack  or  the  prison's  dull  bars ; 
Hands  are  stretched  out  from  the  graves  of  past  ages 
To  brighten  with  holy  deeds  history's  pages  — 

Martyr-fires  burn  as  intensely  as  stars. 

Never  sit  down  by  the  wayside  to  sorrow  — 
Hope  is  a  good  angel,  whence  we  may  .borrow 
Beauty  and  gladness  and  light  for  the  morrow. 

However  dark  be  the  present  with  ill ; 
And  the  far  waves  of  Time's  sorrowful  river. 
Wandering  and  weary  and  moaning  forever, 

Break  on  the  rock  of  Eternity  still. 


ONE  DEPARTED. 

Blest  inspiration  of  unworthy  song, 

A  heart  of  tender  sadness  wooes  thee  back ; 

If  in  blind  weakness  I  have  done  thee  wrong, 
Accord  me  sweet  forgiveness  !     Like  the  track 

Of  a  bright  bird,  whereon  soft  notes  are  cast  — 

The  time,  the  place  is  where  I  saw  thee  last ! 

Life  has  been  weary  with  me  since  we  met. 
Though  in  it  moments  of  deep  joy  there  lie. 

Soft,  as  we  see  in  cloud-rifts,  cold  and  wet, 
Blue  shifting  patches  of  the  summer  sky  : 

For  oft,  thy  gold  locks  wet  with  my  salt  tears, 

Thy  gentle  semblance  from  the  dust  appears  1 

In  the  cold  mists  of  morn,  at  evening  soft. 
When  odors  make  the  winds  so  heavy-sweet, 

Stretching  my  arms  out,  I  have  called  thee  oft, 
And  night  has  heard  the  soundings  of  my  feet 

Where  the  blue  slabs  of  marble,  icy  chill. 

Keep  in  thy  breast  life's  azure  rivers  still ! 

Like  the  faint  dim  vibrations  of  a  lay 
We  sometimes  half  remember,  half  forget, 


76  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Thou,  in  the  winding-sheet  long  wrapt  away, 

Troublest  my  heart  with  wildering  beauty  yet: 
Nor  have  I  ever  met  with  mortal  form 
Sweet  as  thy  shadow  to  my  clasping  arm  ! 

Fade  back  to  ashes,  visitant  divine, 

Unutterably  radiant  as  thou  art, 
If  ever  smile  of  dewy  l\^,  save  thine, 

Hath  touched  the  darkened  ruins  of  my  heart ! 
Thou  wert'in  thy  young  life,  and  still  dost  seem, 
The  sweet  and  passionate  music  of  a  dream. 

Sleep  seals  thy  gentle  eyes,  but  we  are  wed ; 

Thou  wait'st  my  coming  —  shall  I  traitor  prove 
To  the  deep  slumbers  of  the  bridal  bed, 

And  the  birth-chamber  of  immortal  love  ? 
No  !  as  the  sweet  rain  visits  the  pale  bloom, 
I  will  come  softly  to  thee  in  the  tomb ! 


MUSINGS  BY  THREE  GRAVES  * 

The  dappled  clouds  are  broken  ;  bright  and  clear 
Comes  up  the  broad  and  glorious  star  of  day ; 

And  night,  the  shadowy,  like  a  hunted  deer, 
Flies  from  the  close  pursuer  fast  away. 

Now  on  my  ear  a  murmur  faintly  swells, 
And  now  it  gathers  louder  and  more  deep. 

As  the  sweet  music  of  the  village  bells 
Rouses  the  drowsy  rustic  from  his  sleep. 

Hark  !  there  's  a  footstep  startling  up  the  birds, 
And  now  as  softly  steals  the  breeze  along  ; 

I  hear  the  sound,  and  almost  catch  the  words 
Of  the  sweet  fragment  of  a  pensive  song. 

And  yonder,  in  the  clover-scented  vale  — 
Her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  and  simply  clad  — 

*  Eeprinted  in  the  volume  of  1855.    Compare  with  Gray's  "  Elegy  in  a  Country 
Churchyard." 


MUSING  BY  THREE   GRAVES.  77 

I  see  the  milkmaid  with  her  flowing  pail : 
Alas !  what  is  it  makes  her  song  so  sad  ? 

In  the  seclusion  of  these  lowly  dells 

AVhat  mournful  lesson  has  her  bosom  learned  ? 

Is  it  the  memory  of  sad  farewells, 

Or  faithless  love,  or  friendship  unreturned  ? 

Methinks  yon  sunburnt  swain,  with  knotted  thong, 
And  rye-straw  hat  slouched  careless  on  his  brow. 

Whistled  more  loudly,  passing  her  along, 
To  yoke  his  patient  oxen  to  the  plough. 

'T  is  all  in  vain  !  she  heeds  not,  if  she  hears, 
And,  sadly  musing,  separate  ways  they  go,  — 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  how  many  bitter  tears 
Are  mingled  in  the  brightest  fount  below  ? 

Poor,  simple  tenant  of  another's  lands. 
Vexed  with  no  dream  of  heraldic  renown ; 

No  more  the  earnings  of  his  sinewy  hands 
Shall  make  his  spirit  like  the  thistle's  down. 

Smile  not,  recipient  of  a  happier  fate. 

And  haply  better  formed  life's  ills  to  bear, 

If  e'er  you  pause  to  read  the  name  and  date 
Of  one  who  died  the  victim  of  despair. 

Now  morn  is  fully  up  ;  and  while  the  dew 
From  off  her  golden  locks  is  brightly  shed, 

In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  solemn  yew, 
I  sit  alone  and  muse  above  the  dead. 

Not  with  the  blackbird  whistling  in  the  brake. 
Nor  when  the  rabbit  lightly  near  them  treads. 

Shall  they  from  their  deep  slumbering  awake. 
Who  lie  beneath  me  in  their  narrow  beds. 

Oh,  what  is  life  ?  at  best  a  narrow  bound, 

Where  each  that  lives  some  baffled  hope  survives  — 

A  search  for  something,  never  to  be  found. 
Records  the  history  of  the  greatest  lives  ! 


78  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

There  is  a  haven  for  each  weary  bark, 

A  port  where  they  who  rest  are  free  from  sin ; 

But  we,  like  children  trembling  in  the  dark, 
Drive  on  and  on,  afraid  to  enter  in. 

Here  lies  an  aged  patriarch  at  rest. 

To  whom  the  needy  never  vainly  cried. 
Till  in  this  vale,  with  toil  and  years  oppressed, 

His  long-sustaining  staff  was  laid  aside. 

Oft  for  his  country  had  he  fought  and  bled, 
And  gladly,  when  the  lamp  of  life  grew  dim, 

He  joined  the  silent  army  of  the  dead  — 

Then  why  should  tears  of  sorrow  flow  for  him  ? 

We  mourn  not  for  the  cornfield's  deepening  gold, 
Nor  when  the  sickle  on  the  hills  is  plied ; 

And  wherefore  should  we  sorrow  for  the  old, 

Who  perish  when  life's  paths  have  all  been  tried  ? 

How  oft  at  noon  beneath  the  orchard  trees, 

With  brow  serene  and  venerably  fair, 
I  've  seen  a  little  prattler  on  his  knees 

Smoothing  with  dimpled  hand  his  silver  hair. 

When  music  floated  on  the  sunny  hills. 

And  trees  and  shrubs  with  opening  flowers  were  drest, 
She  meekly  put  aside  life's  cup  of  ills. 

And  kindly  neighbors  laid  her  here  to  rest. 

And  ye  who  loved  her,  would  ye  call  her  back, 
Where  its  deep  thirst  the  soul  may  never  slake ; 

And  Sorrow,  with  her  lean  and  hungry  pack. 
Pursues  through  every  winding  which  we  take  ? 

Where  lengthened  years  but  teach  the  bitter  truth 
That  transient  preference  does  not  make  a  friend ; 

That  manhood  disavows  the  love  of  youth, 
And  riper  years  of  manhood,  to  the  end. 

Beneath  this  narrow  heap  of  mouldering  earth, 
Hard  by  the  mansions  of  the  old  and  young. 


TO    THE   EVENING   ZEPHYR.  79 

A  wife  and  mother  sleeps,  whose  humble  worth 
And  quiet  virtues  poet  never  sung. 

With  yonder  cabin,  half  with  ivy  veiled. 
And  children  by  the  hand  of  mercy  sent, 

And  love's  sweet  star,  that  never,  never  paled, 
Her  bosom  knew  the  fulness  of  content. 

Mocking  ambition  never  came  to  tear 
The  finest  fibres  from  her  heart  away,  — 

The  aim  of  her  existence  was  to  bear 

The  cross  in  patient  meekness  day  by  day. 

No  hopeless,  blind  idolater  of  chance, 

The  sport  and  plaything  of  each  wind  that  blows, 
But  lifting  still  by  faith  a  heavenward  glance, 

She  saw  the  waves  of  death  around  her  close. 

And  here  her  children  come  with  pious  tears. 
And  strew  their  simple  offerings  in  the  sod ; 

And  learn  to  tread  like  her  the  vale  of  years, 
Beloved  of  man,  and  reconciled  to  God. 

Now  from  the  village  school  the  urchins  come, 
And  shout  and  laughter  echo  far  and  wide; 

The  blue  smoke  curls  from  many  a  rustic  home. 
Where  all  their  simple  wants  are  well  supplied. 

The  labored  hedger,  pausing  by  the  way. 

Picks  the  ripe  berries  from  the  gadding  vine : 

The  axe  is  still,  the  cattle  homeward  stray. 
And  transient  glories  mark  the  day's  decline. 


TO   THE   EVENING   ZEPHYR.* 

I  SIT  where  the  wild  bee  is  humming, 
And  listen  in  vain  for  thy  song ; 

I  've  waited  before  for  thy  coming. 
But  never,  oh  !  never  so  long. 

*  Reprinted  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


80  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

How  oft  with  the  blue  sky  above  us, 
And  waves  breaking  light  on  the  shore, 

Thou,  knowing  they  would  not  reprove  us, 
Hast  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er ! 

So  sweet  were  thy  dewy  embraces, 
Thy  falsity  who  could  believe  ! 

Some  phantom  thy  fondness  effaces  — 
Thou  couldst  not  have  aimed  to  deceive ! 

Thou  toldest  thy  love  for  me  never, 
But  all  the  bright  stars  in  the  skies, 

Though  striving  to  do  so  forever. 

Could  scarcely  have  numbered  thy  sighs. 

Alone  in  the  gathering  shadows, 

Still  waiting,  sweet  Zephyr,  for  thee, 

I  look  for  the  waves  of  the  meadows, 
And  dimples  to  dot  the  blue  sea. 

The  blossoms  that  waited  to  greet  thee 
With  heat  of  the  noontide  opprest, 

Now  flutter  so  lightly  to  meet  thee, 

Thou  'rt  coming,  I  know,  from  the  West. 

Alas !  if  thou  findest  me  pouting, 
'T  is  only  my  love  that  alarms ; 

Forgive,  then,  I  pray  thee,  my  doubting, 
And  take  me  once  more  to  thy  arms ! 


ANSWER. 

BY   MAJOR    G.    W.    PATTEN,    U.   S.  A. 

Oh  !  sweet  as  the  prayer  of  devotion 

Comes  thy  song,  fair  enchantress,  to  me ; 

And  cleaving  through  mists  of  the  ocean 
I  quicken  my  pinions  for  thee. 

I  know  that  no  day-breeze  has  dallied 
Unreproved,  with  thy  ringlets  of  jet, 

Since  the  moon  when  so  gaily  I  sallied 
From  thy  lips  with  my  dew  kisses  wet. 


RESPONSE.  81 

That  I  love  thee,  I  cannot  dissemble  — 

I  would  not  if  even  I  might ; 
At  thy  touch  doth  my  light  pinion  tremble, 

And  my  voice  murmurs  low  at  thy  sight. 

Though  born  for  the  pathways  of  heaven, 

My  wing  ever  shadows  the  lea, 
If  I  rise  with  the  light  clouds  of  even, 

I  soar  but  to  wander  to  thee. 

I  We  sported  in  evergreen  bowers 

With  blossoms  sweet-scented  and  gay, 

And  I  've  toyed,  mid  those  beautiful  flowers. 
With  beings  as  peerless  as  they : 

But  naught  did  I  ever  discover, 

Whose  nature  seemed  nearer  divine. 

Than  the  lip  of  my  warm-hearted  lover 
When  its  kisses  are  mingled  with  mine. 

Then  no  more  "  where  the  wild  bee  is  humming," 
Stay  to  "  sit "  and  to  "  listen  in  vain ;  " 

I  shall  come  —  even  now  am  I  coming, 
To  fondle  and  fan  thee  again. 


RESPONSE. 


O'er  clouds  of  carnation  and  amber 
Shone  faintly  the  first  gentle  star, 

As  I  caught  from  the  hush  of  my  chamber 
Thy  answering  song  from  afar. 

If  false  thou  hast  sweetly  dissembled. 
Light  spirit  of  mountain  and  sea, 

And  I  —  how  my  glad  bosom  trembled 
At  even  that  whisper  from  thee ! 

Stoop  down  if  thou  wilt,  breezy  rover, 
To  the  blossoms  thy  pathway  along, 

But  lightly,  my  dewy-lipped  lover. 
And  oh !  sing  them  not  such  a  song. 


82  POEMS   BY  ALICE    GARY. 

For  never  an  elfin  nor  fairy, 

Nor  warbler  with  wing  on  the  sky, 

Nor  white-bosomed  bird  of  the  prairie 
Could  love  thee  so  fondly  as  I. 

Not  a  moment  the  day-breeze  has  trifled 
"Unreproved  with  my  ringlets  of  jet," 

Since  the  moon  when  my  fond  heart  was  rifled, 
The  moon  when  as  lovers  we  met. 

Chanting  over  thy  song  of  devotion, 
I  '11  watch  from  the  hill-tops  each  day. 

For  the  path  through  the  white  mists  of  ocean 
Where  thy  pinion  is  cleaving  its  way. 

Till  the  last  summer-bee  ceases  humming  — 

The  last  bird  goes  over  the  sea. 
Since  thou  sayest,  "I  will  come,  I  am  coming," 

I  '11  wait,  my  sweet  Zephyr,  for  thee ! 


THE    SAILOR'S    STORY. 

Night  is  falling,  clouds  are  sweeping, 
And,  ere  morning,  there  may  be 

Many  a  brother  sailor  sleeping 
In  the  white  arms  of  the  sea. 

But  with  courage  tempest-daring, 

Hearts  through  all  things  true  and  warm, 

Warily  our  vessels  wearing,. 
We  may  weather  out  the  storm. 

And,  as  o'er  each  other  rising. 
Billows  sweep  our  deck,  as  then. 

Even  as  impulses  of  sorrow 

Cross  the  souls  of  wicked  men; 

Listen,  comrades,  to  a  story 

Which  the  night  with  hope  may  arm  — 
Heaven's  soft  rainbow,  dropt  with  glory, 

Hangs  its  beauty  o'er  the  storm. 


THE   SAILOR'S   STORY.  83 

In  the  shadows  of  dark  sorrow, 

By  the  river  of  wild  woe, 
Once  there  was  a  weary  mortal 

Ever  wandering  to  and  fro. 

Ever  wandering,  ever  gazing. 

Half  in  love  and  half  in  dread, 
On  the  blue  and  sunken  hollows 

Of  that  wretched  river's  bed. 

For  within  those  grayish  caverns. 

With  each  billow's  fall  and  rise. 
Coils  of  green  and  yellow  serpents 

Lifted  up  their  hungry  eyes. 

Sadly  dwelt  he,  wrapt  from  sunshine, 
With  a  right  hand  maimed  and  dumb. 

Crying  often  at  the  noontide, 

"  Will  the  morning  never  come  ?  " 

Once  a  sailor,  lost,  benighted, 

Drifting  on  the  whirlpool's  rim. 
Shouted  for  the  help  that  came  not  — 

Messmates,  think  you  that  was  him  ? 

With  his  long  locks,  briny,  tangled. 

Clasping  a  torn  bosom  round. 
Washed  upon  the  cold,  wet  sand-beach, 

Once  a  dying  man  was  found ; 

Where  the  plumes  of  pale-pink  sea-weed 

Drifted  like  a  sunset  cloud, 
And  the  mists  of  woe's  wild  river 

Hung  about  him  like  a  shroud. 


'& 


Morning,  like  a  woman,  clasped  him 
With  her  hair,  a  golden  train, 

And  kissed  back  the  living  crimson 
To  his  palid  cheek  again. 

But,  as  near  that  solemn  river 
Wearily  and  slow  he  trod. 


84  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Pitying  eye  of  mortal  never 
Kested  on  that  child  of  God. 

So  the  burning  of  roused  hatred 
In  his  heart  dried  up  the  dew, 

And  the  very  milk  of  kindness 
Bitter  in  its  fountain  grew. 

But  with  light  upon  their  bosoms 
Burning,  burning  evermore, 

Birds  that  nested  in  the  blossoms 
Haunted  that  wild  river-shore  — 

Telling  their  sweet-throated  story, 
From  their  morning  beds  of  dew, 

Upward,  on  their  wings  of  glory. 
Farther,  farther  as  they  flew. 

From  that  heart,  despised,  despising. 
Went  a  yearning  for  their  song, 

Like  the  sorrowful  uprising 
Of  a  passion  smothered  long. 

As  through  waves  of  light  uplifted 
On  and  on  he  saw  them  swim, 

He  forgot  the  boat  that  drifted. 
Helpless,  on  the  whirlpool's  rim. 

And  his  thoughts,  like  winged  swallows 
From  their  dark  home,  rise  and  rise 

O'er  that  river's  sunken  hollows. 
Shining  with  the  hungry  eyes. 

Plunging  in,  like  a  Leander 
With  a  heart  on  fire,  he  flew. 

And  the  waves  before  him  parted, 
Like  a  mist  of  sun  and  dew. 

Once,  a  steed  with  smoking  haunches, 
And  his  loose  mane  streaming  back, 

To  the  rider's  light  caresses 
Bounded  on  a  pathless  track. 


A   LOCK   OF  HAIR,  85 

With  his  glossy  neck  strained  forward, 

And  an  eye  of  ocean  blue, 
Through  the  ringing,  mo6nlit  forest 

Like  an  ebon  shaft  he  flew. 

Like  the  wild  mane  of  the  courser 

Flowing  on  the  wind  upborne, 
Went  the  wild  song  of  the  rider, 

Flowing  from  a  lip  unshorn. 

Something  of  a  wretched  river 

Dimly  moaning  far  behind, 
And  of  birds  with  burning  bosoms, 

Was  that  music  on  the  wind. 

Pushing  back  a  cloud  of  ringlets 
Bound  with  blossoms  pale  as  snow, 

Softly  blushing,  fondly  gazing 
Toward  the  line  of  woods  below ; 

Waited  in  her  bridal  chamber 

One  whose  faith  was  never  dim  — 

Eager  horseman  —  frighted  bosom. 
Dost  thou  tremble  so  for  him  ? 


A  LOCK   OF   HAIE. 

Three  times  the  zephyr's  whisper, 
And  the  soft  sunlit  showers. 

Have  called  up  from  their  slumber 
The  early  spring-time  flowers, — 

Three  times  the  Summer  wild-birds 
Have  built  among  the  trees. 

And  gone  with  the  dull  Autumn 
Three  times  across  the  seas,  — 

Since  this  bright  lock  was  severed 
In  the  hopelessness  of  bliss : 

0,  there  's  a  world  of  eloquence 
In  simple  things  like  this ! 


86  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

What  a  tumult  of  strange  feelings 
It  wakes  within  my  brain ; 

Half  joyous  and  half  sorrowful  — 
Half  rapture,  half  of  pain. 

One  moment  I  am  dreaming 
Love's  broken  chain  is  whole, 

And  echoes  of  lost  music 
Are  trembling  in  my  soul. 

Another,  and  I  'm  sitting 

Where  the  lights  of  memory  burn, 

And  thinking  of  the  summer-times 
That  never  can  return. 

Oft  in  the  solemn  watches 
Of  the  long  and  weary  night, 

No  link  beside  has  bound  me 
To  the  morning  and  the  light. 

'T  is  strange  my  heart  will  vibrate 
From  gladness  to  despair. 

Whenever  I  am  thinking  of 
This  simple  tress  of  hair. 


VISIONS   OF   LIGHT.* 

The  moon  is  rising  in  beauty. 
The  sky  is  solemn  and  bright. 

And  the  waters  are  singing  like  lovers 
That  walk  in  the  valleys  at  night. 

Like  the  towers  of  an  ancient  city, 
That  darken  against  the  sky. 

Seems  the  blue  mist  of  the  river 
O'er  the  hill-tops  far  and  high. 

I  see  through  the  gathering  darkness 
The  spire  of  the  village  church, 

And  the  pale  white  tombs,  half  hidden 
By  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch. 

*  Eeprinted,  without  the  last  stanza,  in  the  volume  of  1S55. 


VISIONS    OF  LIGHT.  87 

Vain  is  the  golden  drifting 

Of  morning  light  on  the  hill ; 
No  white  hands  open  the  windows 

Of  those  chambers  low  and  still. 

But  their  dwellers  were  all  my  kindred, 

Whatever  their  lives  might  be, 
And  their  sufferings  and  achievements 

Have  recorded  lessons  for  me. 

Not  one  of  the  countless  voyagers 

Of  life's  mysterious  main 
Has  laid  down  his  burden  of  sorrows. 

Who  hath  lived  and  loved  in  vain. 

From  the  bards  of  the  elder  ages 

Fragments  of  song  float  by, 
Like  flowers  in  the  streams  of  summer. 

Or  stars  in  the  midnight  sky. 

Some  plumes  in  the  dust  are  scattered, 

Where  the  eagles  of  Persia  flew. 
And  wisdom  is  reaped  from  the  furrows 

The  plough  of  the  Eoman  drew. 

From  the  white  tents  of  the  Crusaders 

The  phantoms  of  glory  are  gone. 
But  the  zeal  of  the  barefooted  hermit 

In  humanity's  heart  lives  on. 

Oh !  sweet  as  the  bell  of  the  Sabbath 
In  the  tower  of  the  village  church. 

Or  the  fall  of  the  yellow  moonbeams 
In  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch  — 

Comes  a  thought  of  the  blessed  issues 
That  shall  follow  our  social  strife. 

When  the  spirit  of  love  maketh  perfect 
The  beautiful  mission  of  life : 

For  visions  of  light  are  gathered 

In  the  sunshine  of  flowery  nooks. 
Like  the  shades  of  the  ghostly  Fathers 

In  their  twilight  cells  of  books ! 


88  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 


A   LEGEND   OF   ST.   MAEY'S.* 

One  night,  when  bitterer  winds  than  ours, 

On  hill-sides  and  in  valleys  low, 
Built  sepulchres  for  the  dead  flowers. 

And  buried  them  in  sheets  of  snow,  — 

When  over  ledges  dark  and  cold, 

The  sweet  moon,  rising  high  and  higher, 

Tipped  with  a  dimly  burning  gold 
St.  Mary's  old  cathedral  spire,  — 

The  lamp  of  the  confessional, 

(God  grant  it  did  not  burn  in  vain,) 

After  the  solemn  midnight  bell, 

Streamed  redly  through  the  lattice-pane. 

And  kneeling  at  the  father's  feet. 

Whose  long  and  venerable  hairs, 
Now  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet. 

Could  not  have  numbered  half  his  prayers, 

Was  one  —  I  cannot  picture  true 

The  cherub  beauty  of  his  guise ; 
Lilies,  and  waves  of  deepest  blue. 

Were  something  like  his  hands  and  eyes  ! 

Like  yellow  mosses  on  the  rocks, 

Dashed  with  the  ocean's  milk-white  spray, 
The  softness  of  his  golden  locks 

About  his  cheek  and  forehead  lay. 

Eather,  thy  tresses,  silver-sleet, 
Ne'er  swept  above  a  form  so  fair ; 

Surely  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet 
Have  been  a  rosary  of  prayer ! 

We  know  not,  and  we  cannot  know, 

Why  swam  those  meek  blue  eyes  with  tears ; 

But  surely  guilt,  or  guiltless  woe, 

Ha4  bowed  him  earthward  more  than  years, 

t  Peprinte4  in  the  volume  of  1855, 


A    LEGEND   OF  ST.   MARY'S.  89 

All  the  long  summer  that  was  gone, 

A  cottage  maid,  the  village  pride, 
Fainter  and  fainter  smiles  had  worn, 

And  on  that  very  night  she  died ! 

As  soft  the  yellow  moonbeams  streamed 

Across  her  bosom,  snowy  fair, 
She  said,  (the  watchers  thought  she  dreamed,) 

"  'T  is  like  the  shadow  of  his  hair  !  " 

And  they  could  hear,  who  nearest  came, 

The  cross  to  sign  and  hope  to  lend, 
The  murmur  of  another  name 

Than  that  of  mother,  brother,  friend. 

An  hour — and  St.  Mary's  spires. 

Like  spikes  of  flame,  no  longer  glow  — 

No  longer  the  confessional  fires 
Shine  redly  on  the  drifted  snow. 

An  hour  —  and  the  saints  had  claimed 
That  cottage  maid,  the  village  pride ; 

And  he,  whose  name  in  death  she  named, 
Was  darkly  weeping  by  her  side. 

White  as  a  spray-wreath  lay  her  brow 

Beneath  the  midnight  of  her  hair, 
But  all  those  passionate  kisses  now 

Wake  not  the  faintest  crimson  there ! 

Pride,  honor,  manhood,  cannot  check 
The  vehemence  of  love's  despair  — 

No  soft  hand  steals  about  his  neck. 
Or  bathes  its  beauty  in  his  hair ! 

Almost  upon  the  cabin  walls 

AYherein  the  sweet  young  maiden  died. 
The  shadow  of  a  castle  falls. 

Where  for  her  young  lord  waits  a  bride  ! 

With  clear  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair, 
In  her  high  turret  still  she  sits  j 


90  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

But,  ah !  what  scorn  her  ripe  lips  wear 
What  shadow  to  her  bosom  flits ! 

From  that  low  cabin  tapers  flash, 

And,  by  the  shimmering  light  they  spread, 

She  sees  beneath  its  mountain  ash, 
Leafless,  but  all  with  berries  red. 

Impatient  of  the  unclasped  rein, 

A  courser  that  should  not  be  there  — 

The  silver  whiteness  of  his  mane 

Streaming  like  moonlight  on  the  air  ! 

Oh,  Love !  thou  art  avenged  too  well  — 
The  young  heart,  broken  and  betrayed. 

Where  thou  didst  meekly,  sweetly  dwell, 
For  all  its  sufferings  is  repaid. 

Not  the  proud  beauty,  nor  the  frown 
Of  her  who  shares  the  living  years. 

From  her  the  winding-sheet  wraps  down 
Can  ever  buy  away  the  tears  ! 


THE  NOVICE  OF  ST.  MARY'S. 

FROM    "  THE    MONASTERY  "    OF    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 

Dark  in  the  shade  of  the  mountains. 

From  a  valley  full  of  flowers. 
Rose  up,  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun, 

St.  Mary's  chapel  towers. 

The  bell  of  the  old  gray  turret 

Was  tolling  deep  and  slow. 
And  friars  were  telling  their  beads,  and  monks 

Chanting  their  hymns  below. 

But  the  breath  of  the  silver  censers. 
As  they  swung  in  the  twilight  dim. 

And  the  sacred  hush  as  the  beads  were  told, 
And  the  chant  of  the  golemn  hymn ; 


HELVA.  91 

And  the  golden  light  of  the  sunset 

Might  bear  to  the  heart  no  joy, 
Of  one  whose  mantle  of  coarsest  serge 

Betokened  a  novice  boy. 

Pale  was  his  brow,  and  dreamy, 
And  his  bright  locks  yet  unshorn  : 

He  had  but  given  his  mother's  smile 
For  the  convent's  gloom  that  morn. 

0,  why  are  his  pale  hands  folded 
In  the  chill  of  the  cloister's  gloom  ? 

Why  loses  his  cheek  its  roundness, 
And  his  lip  its  rosy  bloom  ? 

Let  Mary  of  Avenel  answer, 

As  she  sits  in  the  twilight  dim. 
In  the  leafy  shade  of  her  garden  bower 

Does  she  wait  for  the  convent  hymn  ? 

No,  her  young  heart  softly  trembles 

From  its  even  pulse  of  joy. 
As  she  hears  a  step,  but  't  is  not  the  step 

Of  St.  Mary's  Novice  Boy ! 


HELVA.=* 


Her  white  hands  full  of  mountain  flowers, 
Down  by  the  rough  rocks  and  the  sea, 

Helva,  the  raven-tressed,  for  hours 
Hath  gazed  forth  earnestly. 

Unconscious  that  the  salt  spray  flecks 
The  ebon  beauty  of  her  hair  — 

What  vision  is  it  she  expects, 
So  meekly  lingering  there  ? 

Is  it  to  see  the  sea-fog  lift 

From  the  broad  bases  of  the  hills, 

Or  the  red  moonlight's  golden  drift. 
That  her  soft  bosom  thrills  ? 

*  Reprinted  in  the  volume  of  1865. 


92  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Or  yet  to  see  the  starry  hours 

Their  silver  network  round  her  throw, 

That  'neath  the  white  hands,  full  of  flowers, 
Her  heart  heaves  to  and  fro  ? 

Why  strains  so  far  the  aching  eye  ? 

Kind  nature  wears  to-night  no  frown, 
And  the  still  beauty  of  the  sky 

Keeps  the  mad  ocean  down. 

Why  are  those  damp  and  heavy  locks 
Put  back,  the  faintest  sound  to  win  ? 

Ah !  where  the  beacon  lights  the  rocks, 
A  ship  is  riding  in ! 

Who  comes  forth  to  the  vessel's  side. 

Leaning  upon  the  manly  arm 
Of  one  who  wraps  with  tender  pride 

The  mantle  round  her  form  ? 

Oh,  Helva,  watcher  of  lone  hours. 
May  God  in  mercy  give  thee  aid  ! 

Thy  cheek  is  whiter  than  thy  flowers  — 
Thy  woman's  heart  betrayed  ! 


THE  TIME  TO  BE  * 

I  SIT  where  the  leaves  of  the  maple 
And  the  gnarled  and  the  knotted  gum 

Are  circling  and  drifting  around  me, 
And  think  of  the  time  to  come. 

For  the  human  heart  is  the  mirror 
Of  the  things  that  are  near  and  far ; 

Like  the  wave  that  reflects  in  its  bosom 
The  flower  and  the  distant  star. 

And  beautiful  to  my  vision 

Is  the  time  it  prophetically  sees, 

As  was  once  to  the  monarch  of  Persia 
The  gem  of  the  Cyclades. 

*  Reprinted,  without  the  tliird  stanza,  in  tUe  yolume  of  1855. 


ELOQUENCE.  93 

As  change  in  the  order  of  Nature, 

And  beauty  springs  from  decay, 
So  in  its  destined  season 

The  false  for  the  true  makes  way. 

The  darkening  power  of  evil, 

And  discordant  jars  and  crime. 
Are  the  cry  preparing  the  wilderness 

For  the  flower  and  the  harvest-time ; 

Though  doubtings  and  weak  misgivings 

May  rise  to  the  soul's  alarm. 
Like  the  ghosts  of  the  heretic  burners, 

In  the  province  of  bold  Keform. 

And  now  as  the  summer  is  fading. 

And  the  cold  clouds  full  of  rain. 
And  the  net,  in  the  fields  of  stubble 

And  the  briers,  is  spread  in  vain  — 

I  catch,  through  the  mists  of  life's  river, 

A  glimpse  of  the  time  to  be. 
When  the  chain  from  the  bondman  rusted, 

Shall  leave  him  erect  and  free  — 

On  the  solid  and  broad  foundation, 

A  common  humanity's  right. 
To  cover  his  branded  shoulder 

With  the  garment  of  love  from  sight. 


ELOQUENCE. 


LiKEST  the  first  Apostle, 
Fearless  of  scoffs  he  stood. 

Preaching  Christ  and  the  resurrection 
To  the  eager  multitude. 

The  light  on  his  broad  clear  forehead 
Fell- not  from  the  gorgeous  pane, 

As  he  spoke  of  the  blessed  Jesus, 
Who  diedj  and  is  risen  again, 


94  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

How  beautiful  on  the  mountains 
The  feet  of  the  righteous  are ; 

How  sweet  is  the  silver  singing 
Of  lips  that  are  used  to  prayer. 

Will  the  rain  of  the  dull,  cold  autumn 
Awaken  the  sleeping  flower  ? 

Or  the  heart  of  the  sinful  soften, 

Though  the  godless  preach  with  power  ? 

But  the  light  of  the  golden  summer 
Will  ripen  the  harvest  grain. 

And  words  that  are  fitly  spoken 
Will  meet  a  response  again. 

And  the  hearts  of  a  thousand  bosoms 
Shrank  frightened  and  trembling  back, 

Like  a  fawn  in  a  heath  of  blossoms. 
With  the  hunters  on  its  track. 

For  they  heard,  as  the  full  tone  deepened 

To  eloquence  sublime. 
Echoes  of  muffled  footsteps 

In  the  corridors  of  crime ; 

And  saw  the  low-voiced  Tempter 
Thence  lure  the  weak  to  die, 

As  the  bird  in  narrowing  circles 
Goes  down  to  the  serpent's  eye. 

But  when  of  Heaven's  sweet  mercy 

He  bade  them  not  despair. 
Bright  through  the  vaulted  temple 

Floated  the  wings  of  prayer. 

As  home  I  journeyed  slowly 

From  the  multitude  apart, 
Messengers  good  and  holy 

Kept  knocking  at  my  heart. 

When  sleep  descended  brightly, 

I  heard  the  anthem's  roll, 
And  all  night  my  heart  beat  lightly 

To  the  music  in  my  soul. 


TO    ELM  A.  95 

TO   ELMA. 

How  heavily  the  sea-waves  break  ! 

The  storm  wails  loud  and  deep ; 
Wake,  sister,  from  thy  slumber  wake, 

For,  oh  !  I  cannot  sleep. 

My  head  is  resting  on  thine  arm, 

Thy  heart  beats  close  to  mine ; 
But,  oh !  this  weary  night  of  storm  — 

How  can  such  peace  be  thine  ? 

Thou  answerest  not —  again  I  hear 

Thy  breathing,  calm  and  deep ; 
No  sorrow  hast  thou,  and  no  fear  — 

I  wish  that  I  could  sleep  ! 

They  tell  of  warning  lights  that  gleam, 
And  ghosts  such  nights  that  glide, 

And  dreams  —  ay,  once  I  had  a  dream  — 
'T  is  more  than  verified ! 

Louder  against  the  flinty  sand 

I  hear  the  dashing  seas  ; 
No  angel  holds  my  trembling  hand 

Such  fearful  nisrhts  as  these. 


•^to^ 


Why  strive  to  cheat  myself,  or  hark 
To  hear  the  tempest  laid  ? 

'T  is  not  the  storm,  and  not  the  dark, 
That  makes  my  heart  afraid  ! 

For  if  my  ear,  in  tempest  strife, 

Is  quickened  to  its  roll, 
'T  is  that  the  promise  of  my  life 

Is  broken  in  my  soul. 

Yet  speak  to  me  !  and  lay  thy  hand 

Upon  my  aching  brow  — 
I'  ve  nothing  on  the  sea  or  land 

To  love  or  cling  to  now. 


96  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CASy. 


TO   FLORA. 

Away  with  regal  palaces 

And  diadems  of  gold  : 
There 's  nothing  in  the  world  so  sweet 

As  love's  embracing  fold. 

I  care  not  if  the  sea  be  rough 

And  if  the  sky  be  dark, 
If  thou,  beloved  of  my  soul, 

Art  with  me  in  the  bark. 

Blest  inspiration  of  my  song ! 

I  would  not  leave  thy  side, 
To  wear  the  stars  of  royalty, 

And  be  a  monarch's  bride. 

May  thy  fond  arms  encircle  me 

As  time  goes  smoothly  by, 
And  may  thy  faithful  bosom  be 

My  pillow  when  I  die. 

The  time  to  come  with  flowers  we  '11  sow 

As  all  the  past  has  been. 
And  though  our  cabin  may  be  low, 

The  angels  will  come  in. 

If  bitterness  our  cup  shall  fill 

And  evil  angels  send. 
Oh !  what  a  sweetener  of  the  ill 

To  know  we  have  a  friend. 

Of  Heaven  above  I  ask  but  this 

Of  happiness  conferred  — 
One  heart  that  feels  diviner  bliss 

Whene'er  my  step  is  heard. 


TO  MYRRHA.  97 

MYRRHA. 

I  'm  thinking,  my  sweet  Myrrha, 

Of  that  happy  time  in  youth, 
When  all  the  world  appeared  like  thee, 

In  innocence  and  truth. 

Oh !  when  around  the  shining  hearth, 

At  night,  we  used  to  meet. 
There  was  music  in  the  treading 

Of  the  little  naked  feet. 

And  I  am  thinking,  Myrrha, 

Of  the  smiles  and  kindly  words, 

That  ever  lulled  us  to  our  sleep, 
And  called  us  with  the  birds. 

I  think,  until  it  almost  seems 

The  kiss  is  on  my  brow ;  — 
Alas  !  't  is  only  in  my  dreams ; 

I  have  no  mother  now ! 

I  am  thinking  of  the  Sabbath, 

When,  alone  and  sad,  I  trod 
A  path  each  day  is  w^earing  down 

More  deeply  in  the  sod. 

Sometimes,  I  have  been  happy  since, 

And  trust  I  yet  shall  be  ; 
But  never,  sister  of  my  soul ! 

Have  I  forgotten  thee. 


TO   MYREHA. 

The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal, 
No  age  can  chill  nor  rival  steal, 
Nor  falsehood  disavow. —  Byron. 

Yes,  the  living  cast  me  from  them, 
As  the  rock  the  clasping  wave ; 

Once  there  was  one  who  loved  me  - 
She  is  buried  in  the  grave. 


98  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

In  the  play-haunts  of  my  childhood, 

She  was  always  by  my  side; 
Oh !  she  loved  me  in  her  lifetime, 

And  she  loved  me  when  she  died. 

God  knoweth  my  dark  sorrow 
When  I  knew  that  all  was  o'er, 

And  called  her  every  lovely  name, 
But  she  could  speak  no  more. 

I  could  not,  dare  not,  look  upon 

The  strife,  the  parting  dread ; 
But  my  heart  I  felt  was  breaking. 

And  I  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

They  told  me  she  was  passing 
Through  the  golden  gates  of  day, 

When  the  hand  that  meekly  clasped  my  neck 
Fell  heavily  away. 

I  forgot  the  harp  of  Gabriel, 

The  glory  of  the  crown  — 
When  the  foldings  of  the  winding-sheet 

Had  wrapt  her  still  heart  down. 

Shall  I  gather  back  my  broken  hopes 

From  her  cold  sepulchre  ? 
No !  none  have  loved  me  in  their  lives 

Or  in  their  deaths  like  her. 


TO   THE   SPIRIT   OF  TRUTH. 

Bright-winged  spirit  of  the  sky. 

Beautiful  and  holy. 
Pass  thou  not  neglectful  by 

The  despised  and  lowly. 

Where  the  mourner  by  the  tomb 
Sits,  the  dark  unheeding, 

With  the  white  down  of  thy  plume 
Bind  the  heart  from  bleeding. 


TO  .  99 


Like  the  sweet  light  of  the  stars, 
Pierce  the  gloomiest  prison, 

Leaving  broken  bolts  and  bars 
Cerements  of  the  risen. 

Where  along  the  furrowed  soil 
Corn  and  rice  are  springing, 

Let  us  hear  the  child  of  toil 
At  his  labor  singing. 

Though  the  downy  lip  of  youth 
Whiten  with  vain  terror 

With  thy  sacred  wand,  0  Truth ! 
Smite  gray-bearded  Error. 

Eight  in  Superstition's  frown 

Be  his  doom  alotted, 
And  to  lower  the  coffin  down, 

Hangman's  cords  be  knotted. 

Where  the  progeny  of  sin 
Hold  their  horrid  revels, 

In  the  Master's  name  go  in, 
And  rebuke  the  devils. 

Surely  the  "  good  time  "  is  nigh 
For  thy  wide  diffusion  ; 

Else  God's  promise  is  a  lie, 
And  our  faith,  delusion. 


TO . 

Haply  beneath  heaven's  equal  beams 

There  lies  some  green  and  peaceful  isle, 
Where,  gathering  up  my  broken  dreams, 

I  yet  may  smile,  or  seem  to  smile. 
Away,  false  hope,  nor  blind  my  eyes ; 

I  feel,  I  know  my  doom  of  ill ; 
Unbind  thy  web  of  hollow  lies. 

And  let  my  heart  bleed  as  it  will. 


100  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

I  know  that  I  am  changed  —  that  years 

Have  left  their  shadows  on  my  brow, 
And  the  dim  traces  of  some  tears  — 

But  these  to  thee  are  nothing  now. 
I  'm  sitting  on  the  mossy  stone, 

Where  we  have  talked  of  love  till  death, 
And  thinking,  but  alone,  alone, 

And  thou  —  ah  !  who  has  broken  faith  ? 

I  will  not  tell  thee  not  to  go, 

Nor  ask  thee  yet  to  think  of  me ; 
My  doom  of  dark  and  hopeless  woe 

Has  been  too  much  entwined  with  thee. 
For  if  thou  seest,  from  me  apart, 

A  sunnier  path  than  both  have  known, 
I  '11  fold  the  darkness  to  my  heart, 

And  sit,  as  now,  alone,  alone. 


THE   TWO   LOVERS. 

Singing  down  a  quiet  valley. 
Singing  to  herself  she  went, 

And,  with  wing  aslant,  the  zephyr 
To  her  cheek  with  kisses  leant. 

Dainty,  with  the  golden  blossoms 
Of  the  mulberries'*  silver  braid. 

Were  the  windings  of  the  valley 
Where  the  singing  maiden  strayed. 

Where  the  river  mist  was  climbing 
Thin  and  white  along  the  rocks. 

On  a  hollow  reed  sat  piping. 
Like  a  shepherd  to  his  flocks, 

One  whose  lip  was  scarcely  darkened 
With  the  dawn  of  manhood's  pride. 

With  his  earnest  eyes  bent  downward 
To  the  river's  voiceless  tide. 

♦Corrected  to  "muUens'  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy 


ABJURA  TION.  101 

Answering  to  his  pleading  music 

Smiled  a  lovelit,  girlish  face, 
Folded  by  the  placid  waters 

In  their  chilly,  cold  embrace. 

Like  the  summer  sunshine  parted 

By  the  white  wing  of  a  dove, 
Like  the  mist  that  sweetly  trembles 

Round  the  pensive  star  of  love  j 

Were  the  pale  and  wavy  ringlets 

Drifting  on  the  pearly  tide. 
While  the  music,  wilder,  deeper, 

On  the  hushed  air  rose  and  died. 

Treading  down  the  golden  blossoms 
Of  the  mulberries'  *  silver  braid, 

Struck  a  steed,  with  lordly  rider. 
Toward  the  half  enchanted  maid. 

Like  a  rose-cloud  from  the  sunset, 
Like  the  love-light  from  a  dream, 

Fled  the  wildering  shade  of  beauty 
From  the  bosom  of  the  stream. 

Haunted  by  the  cherub  shadow 
He  could  woo  not  from  the  wave, 

Day  by  day  the  boy  grew  sadder 
And  went  pining  to  the  grave. 

Singing  down  the  quiet  valley, 

Singing  as  the  day  grows  dim. 
Walks  the  maiden,  but  her  visions 

Blend  not  with  a  thought  of  him  ! 


ABJURATION. 

Haunting  phantom,  I  abjure  thee ! 

Thou  shalt  never  vex  me  more; 
Though  the  past  was  sweet  as  summer. 

Better  far  to  look  before. 

'  Corrected  to  "  muUens'  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


102  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Who  would  sit  in  memory's  chambers, 
Mantled  from  the  loving  light, 

With  the  sea  of  life  before  them, 
Broad,  and  beautiful,  and  bright  ? 

Wherefore  in  the  port  of  sorrow 
Should  our  moorings  longer  be  ? 

Helmsman,  ho  !  heave  up  the  anchor ! 
Now,  my  messmates,  for  the  sea! 

Up,  my  chamois-footed  reefer ! 

Let  the  canvas  be  unfurled — 
Moth  will  fret  away  the  garment 

Faster  than  the  wearing  world  ! 

Though  our  bark  is  not  too  steady, 
And  our  compass  sometimes  errs, 

Never  let  the  sail  be  slackened  — 
Storms  make  skilful  mariners: 

True,  beneath  these  waves  of  beauty. 
Far  from  wind  and  tempest-frown 

When  the  sky  was  full  of  sunshine 
Many  vessels  have  gone  down. 

Happiness  is  not  in  wooing 

Phantoms  to  the  vacant  breast ; 

But  in  earnest,  healthful  striving 
And  in  blessing  we  are  blest. 

Are  we  ready  ?  are  we  freighted  ? 

Not  with  odors,  not  with  gold ; 
But  with  bright  hopes  for  the  future  — 

With  true  hearts  and  courage  bold ! 

Downward  from  the  shore  of  sorrow 
Fresh  the  seaward  breezes  spring ; 

And  our  flag  is  up  and  waving, 
Like  some  proud  bird's  open  wing. 

When  the  showers  of  evening  crimson 
Fall  like  roses  on  the  sea ; 

Rocking  o'er  the  glad,  free  billows. 
Oh,  how  sweet  my  dreams  will  be ! 


OLD   STORIES.  103 


OLD   STORIES.* 

No  beautiful  star  will  twinkle 

To-night  through  my  window-pane, 

As  I  list  to  the  mournful  falling 
Of  the  leaves  and  the  autumn  rain. 

High  up  in  his  leafy  covert 

The  squirrel  a  shelter  hath  ; 
And  the  tall  grass  hides  the  rabbit, 

Asleep  in  the  churchyard  path. 

On  the  hills  is  a  voice  of  wailing 
For  the  pale  dead  flowers  again, 

That  sounds  like  the  heavy  trailing 
Of  robes  in  a  funeral  train. 

Oh,  if  there  were  one  who  loved  me  — 
A  kindly  and  gray -haired  sire, 

To  sit  and  rehearse  old  stories 
To-night  by  my  cabin  fire : 

The  winds  as  they  would  might  rattle 
The  boughs  of  the  ancient  trees  — 

In  the  tale  of  a  stirring  battle 
My  heart  w^ould  forget  all  these. 

Or  if,  by  the  embers  dying, 

We  talked  of  the  past,  the  while, 

I  should  see  bright  spirits  flying 
From  the  pyramids  and  the  Nile. 

Echoes  from  harps  long  silent 

Would  troop  through  the  aisles  of  time, 
And  rest  on  the  soul  like  sunshine. 

If  we  talked  of  the  bards  sublime. 

But,  hark !  did  a  phantom  call  me. 

Or  was  it  the  wind  went  by  ? 
Wild  are  my  thoughts  and  restless. 

But  they  have  no  power  to  fly. 

*  Reprinted  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


104  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

In  place  of  the  cricket  humming, 
And  the  moth  by  the  candle's  light, 

I  hear  but  the  death  watch  drumming  - 
I  've  heard  it  the  livelong  night. 

Oh,  for  a  friend  who  loved  me  — 
Oh,  for  a  gray-haired  sire. 

To  sit  with  a  quaint  old  story 
To-night  by  my  cabin  fire. 


SPECTRES. 


Once  more  the  shadows  darken 
Upon  life's  solemn  stream  — 

Once  more  I  'm  in  my  chamber 
To  ponder  and  to  dream. 

Down  in  the  mist- white  valley. 

Across  the  hills  afar. 
The  rosy  light  is  gleaming 

From  Love's  descending  star, 

I  hear  from  yonder  parlor 

A  prattler  cry,  "  He  's  come  !  " 

Oh,  there  's  a  world  of  comfort  — 
I  wish  I  had  a  home ! 

All  last  night,  round  about  me 
The  lights  of  memory  streamed, 

And  my  heart  to  long-lost  music 
Kept  beating  as  I  dreamed. 

We  live  with  spectres  haunted 
That  we  cannot  exorcise  — 

A  pale  and  shadowy  army 
Between  us  and  the  skies. 

Conjured  by  mortal  weakness. 
In  their  cerements  they  start 

From  the  lonesome  burial-places 
Of  the  dead  hopes  of  the  heart. 


LUCIFER.  105 


They  will  meet  thee,  fellow-pilgrim, 
For  their  graves  are  everywhere. 

And  thou  canst  not  lay  them  better 
Than  by  labor  which  is  prayer. 


LUCIFER. 


Usurper  of  the  throne  of  God, 

From  heaven's  high  battlement  cast  down, 
What  spot  of  earth  hast  thou  not  trod, 

Wearing  rebellion  as  a  crown  ? 

Like  some  bright  meteor  of  the  air 

Streams  o'er  the  world  thy  robe  of  flame ; 

Ruined,  fallen,  yet  as  angel  fair, 
I  breathe  my  curses  on  thy  name ! 

The  broad  road  going  down  to  death. 
What  thousands  but  for  thee  would  quit, 

And  climb  to  the  green  hills  of  faith. 
From  the  black  ashes  of  the  pit. 

Once,  when  through  Mercy's  gates  ajar, 
I  heard  salvation's  anthem  flow, 

Thy  fire-wing  led  me,  like  a  star. 
Back  to  the  wretched  gates  of  woe ! 

0,  Holy  Spirit,  cease  to  grieve 
That  slighted  offer  of  thy  grace ; 

My  heart  is  breaking  to  receive 
The  beauty  of  thy  sweet  embrace. 

I  cannot,  will  not  let  thee  go. 

Has  been  my  cry  —  nor  shall  it  cease. 
Till  the  wild  billows  of  my  woe 

Shall  bear  me  to  the  shore  of  peace. 

Go  lay  thy  forehead  in  hell's  coals. 
Proud  scorner  of  the  bended  knee. 

For  broken  faith  and  perjured  souls 
Charged  all  their  awful  guilt  to  thee. 


106  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

And  when  at  last  the  quick  and  dead 
Are  summoned  to  the  judgment  bar, 

If  there  shall  be  a  crime  more  dread 
Than  all  the  rest,  to  answer  for  — 

Thine  is  it ;  for  no  evil  hand. 

Save  that  which  opened  first  the  grave, 

Could  ever  sink  the  accursed  brand 
In  the  crouched  shoulder  of  the  slave. 


BE   ACTIVE. 


Thou  who  silently  art  weeping. 

Thou  of  faded  lip  and  brow, 
Golden  harvests  for  thy  reaping 

Wave  before  thee  even  now. 

Fortune  may  be  false  and  fickle  — 

Should  you,  therefore,  pause  and  weep  ? 

Taking  in  thy  hand  the  sickle, 
Enter  in  the  field,  and  reap. 

Though  the  garden,  famed  Elysian, 
May  be  shut  from  thee  by  fate, 

Thou  hast  yet  a  holier  mission 
Than  to  linger  at  the  gate. 

When  so  oft  the  rosiest  morning 
Slumbers  in  the  tempest's  arms. 

Should  the  cloud  of  dismal  warning 
Eill  the  soul  with  vague  alarms  ? 

Brightest  visions  from  thy  pillow  "^ 
May  have  vanished,  still  thou  'rt  blest, 

While  the  waves  of  time's  rough  billows 
Wash  the  shores  of  endless  rest. 

Should  the  powers  of  darkness  blind  thee, 
Should  their  whispers  fill  thy  heart. 

Say  thou,  Satan,  get  behind  me ! 
And  the  tempter  will  depart. 

*  Probably  a  misprint  for  "  pillows." 


DEATH'S  FERRYMAN.  107 

Then,  to  every  fortune  equal, 

Let  us  combat  to  the  last, 
That  life's  marches  in  the  sequel 

May  retrieve  the  wasted  past. 


DEATH'S   FERPvYMAN.* 

Boatman,  thrice  I  've  called  thee  o'er, 
Waiting  on  life's  solemn  shore, 
Tracing,  in  the  silver  sand. 
Letters  till  thy  boat  should  land. 

Drifting  out  alone  with  thee, 
Toward  the  clime  I  cannot  see, 
Read  to  me  the  strange  device 
Graven  on  thy  wand  of  ice. 

Push  the  curls  of  golden  hue 
From  thy  eyes  of  starlit  dew, 
And  behold  me  where  I  stand. 
Beckoning  thy  boat  to  land. 

Where  the  river  mist,  so  pale, 
Trembles  like  a  bridal  veil, 
O'er  yon  lowly  drooping  tree, 
One  that  loves  me  waits  for  me. 

Hear,  sweet  boatman,  hear  my  call ! 
Last  year,  with  the  leaflets,  fall. 
Besting  her  pale  hand  in  mine. 
Crossed  she  in  that  boat  of  thine. 

When  the  corn  shall  cease  to  grow. 
And  the  rye-field's  silver  flow 
At  the  reaper's  feet  is  laid. 
Crossing,  spake  the  gentle  maid : 

Dearest  love,  another  year 
Thou  shalt  meet  this  boatman  here  — 
The  white  fingers  of  despair 
Playing  with  his  golden  hair. 

*  Keprinted  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


108  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

From  this  silver-sanded  shore, 
Beckon  him  to  row  thee  o'er  ; 
Where  yon  solemn  shadows  be, 
I  shall  wait  theS  —  come  and  see ! 

There !  the  white  sails  float  and  flow, 
One  in  heaven  and  one  below; 
And  I  hear  a  low  voice  cry. 
Ferryman  of  Death  am  I. 


WATCHING.* 


Thy  smile  is  sad,  Elella, 

Too  sad  for  thee  to  wear, 
For  scarcely  have  we  yet  untwined 

The  rosebuds  from  thy  hair. 

So,  dear  one,  hush  thy  sobbing. 
And  let  thy  tears  be  dried  — 

Methinks  thou  shouldst  be  happier. 
Three  little  months  a  bride. 

Hark  ;  how  the  winds  are  heaping 
The  snow-drifts  cold  and  white  — 

The  clouds  like  spectres  cross  the  sky  - 
Oh,  what  a  lonesome  night ! 

The  hour  grows  late  and  later, 
I  hear  the  midnight  chime : 

Thy  heart's  fond  keeper,  where  is  he  ? 
Why  comes  he  not  ? —  't  is  time  ! 

Here  make  my  heart  thy  pillow. 
And,  if  the  hours  seem  long, 

I  '11  while  them  with  a  legend  wild, 
Or  fragment  of  old  song  — 

Or  read,  if  that  will  soothe  thee. 
Some  poet's  pleasant  rhymes  : 

Oh,  I  have  watched  and  waited  thus, 
I  cannot  tell  the  times  ! 

*  Reprinted  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


ON   THE  DEATH  OF  A    CHILD.  109 

Hush,  hark  !  across  the  neighboring  hills 

I  hear  the  watch-dog  bay  — 
Stir  up  the  lire,  and  trim  the  lamp, 

I  'm  sure  he  's  on  the  way. 

Could  that  have  only  been  the  winds 

So  like  a  footstep  near  ? 
No,  smile,  Elella,  smile  again, 

He  's  coming  home  —  he  's  here  ! 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   A   CHILD. 

Vain  it  were  to  say  that  night 
Folds  away  the  morrow  — 

Oh,  you  cannot  see  the  light 
Through  this  aching  sorrow ! 

Beauty  from  your  lives  is  borne, 

Brother,  sister,  weepiog ; 
But  the  cherub  boy  you  mourn 

Is  not  dead,  but  sleeping. 

Folded  are  the  dimpled  arms 
From  your  soft  caressing ; 

Yet  our  God  in  darker  forms 
Sendeth  down  his  blessing. 

Death,  a  breeze  from  heaven  astray, 
Still,  with  wing  the  fleetest, 

Drifts  the  lovely  flowers  away. 
Where  hope  clings  the  sweetest. 

Strong  to  change,  but  not  destroy 
While  the  paley  winglets 

Veil  the  forehead  of  the  boy 
Bright  with  golden  ringlets. 

Faith,  though  dumb  at  the  great  loss 
Which  hath  made  you  weepers, 

Closer,  closer  clasps  the  Cross 
Down  among  the  sleepers. 


110  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

And  though  Avild  your  anguish  be, 
And  your  hearts  all  broken, 

"  Suffer  them  to  come  to  me," 
Hath  been  sweetly  spoken. 


CRADLE   SONG. 

Weary  of  the  mother's  part? 

My  sweet  baby,  never ! 
I  will  rock  thee  on  my  heart 

Ever,  yes,  forever  ! 

Loveliest  of  lovely  things, 
Pure  as  the  evangel !  — 

0,  in  everything  but  wings 
Is  my  babe  an  angel ! 

Blue  as  heaven  is  are  the  eyes, 
'Neath  the  lids  so  waxen. 

And  the  gold  of  morning  lies 
In  the  ringlets  flaxen. 


•^ft-" 


Fragrant  shrub,  or  tropic  tree, 
Never  yielded  blossom 

Half  so  lovely,  sweet,  as  thee, 
Sleeping  on  my  bosom ! 

When  thy  little  dimpled  cheek 
Mine  is  softly  pressing, 

Not  a  wish  have  I  to  seek 
Any  other  blessing. 

Art  thou,  little  baby,  mine  ? 

Earlier  love  effacing : 
One  whose  smile  is  like  to  thine, 

Chides  this  long  embracing. 

No  !  as  drops  of  light  and  dew 

Glorify  each  other. 
So  shall  we  life  journey  through, 

Father,  child,  and  mother. 


SEKO.  Ill 


SEKO. 


Bright  dames  had  kept  the  knight 

Long  at  the  wassail ; 
Therefore  his  courser  white 

Flew  toward  his  castle. 

Deep  moaned  the  ocean  flood, 
Howled  the  wind  hoarser  — 

Kight  through  the  ringing  wood 
Struck  the  gay  courser. 

Hoof-strokes  had  trod  the  flowers 
Where  the  rein  slackened  ; 

Fierce  flames  had  left  the  towers 
E/uined  and  blackened. 

One  look  of  mute  despair 

Gave  he  lost  splendor ; 
One  cry  rose  Avildly  there, 

Wildly,  but  tender. 

Up  from  the  dismal  rocks 

Rose  the  sad  echo  — 
Maid  of  the  golden  locks, 

Dewy-eyed  Seko ! 

Once  more  with  smothered  pain 
Writhed  his  lip  slightly, 

Then  'neath  a  tightened  rein 
Flew  the  steed  lightly. 


Hushed  be  thy  stormy  wrath, 

Desolate  bosom ; 
Low  in  thy  mountain  path 

Lies  the  lost  blossom. 

Pale  uncaressing  lips 

Wait  for  the  lover, 
Pale  as  the  plume  that  dips 

Softly  above  her. 


112  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Bright  o'er  the  icy  rocks 

Of  the  roused  echo 
Lay  the  long  golden  locks 

Of  the  dead  Seko. 

Drifting  like  silver  rain 
Down  o'er  his  master 

Went  the  white  courser's  mane- 
Wof ul  disaster ! 


THE  DESERTED   EYLGIA.*t 

Like  a  meteor,  radiant,  streaming, 

Seems  her  hair  to  me. 
And  thou  bear'st  her  feet  like  lilies, 

Dark  and  chilly  sea ! 

Wannish  fires  enclasp  her  bosom. 

Like  the  Northern  Light, 
And  like  icicles  her  fingers 

Glisten,  locked  and  white. 

On  the  blue  and  icy  ocean, 

As  a  stony  floor, 
Toward  thy  boat,  0  dying  Viking, 

Walks  she  evermore ! 

Like  a  star  on  morning's  forehead, 

When  the  intense  air. 
Sweeping  o'er  the  face  of  heaven. 

Lays  its  far  depths  bare  — 

Is  the  beauty  of  her  smiling. 

Pale  and  cold  and  clear  — 
What,  0  fearful,  dying  Viking, 

Doth  the  maiden  here  ? 

*  "  A  Scandinavian  warrior,  having  embraced  Christianit}',  and  being  attacked  by 
disease  which  he  thought  mortal,  was  naturally  anxious  that  a  spirit  who  had 
accompanied  him  through  his  pagan  career  should  not  attend  him  into  that  other 
world,  where  her  society  might  involve  him  in  disagreeable  consequences.  The 
persevering  Fylgia,  however,  in  the  shape  of  a  fair  maiden,  walked  on  the  waves 
of  the  sea.  after  her  Viking's  ship." — Author's  Note. 

t  lleprinted  in  volume  of  1S55. 


MUSIC.  113 

Hath  the  wretched  hell-maid,  Belsta, 

Ever  crossed  her  way, 
Weirdly  driving  herds  of  cattle. 

Cattle  dark  ai;d  gray  ? 

Hath  she  seen  the  maids  of  Skulda 

Draw  from  Urda's  well 
Water  where  the  awful  snake-king 

Gnaws  the  roots  of  hell  ? 

Hath  she  seen  the  harts  that  ever 

Haunt  the  ashen  tree. 
Keeping  all  its  buds  from  blooming  ? 

Viking,  answer  me ! 

Moaningly  his  white  lips  tremble. 

But  no  voice  replies  — 
Starlight  in  the  blue  waves  frozen, 

Seem  his  closing  eyes. 

Woman's  lot  is  thine,  0  Fylgia, 

Mourning  broken  faith. 
And  her  mighty  love  outlasting 

Chance  and  change  and  death! 


MUSIC. 


There  is  music,  deep  and  solemn. 

Floating  through  the  vaulted  arch 
When,  in  many  an  angry  column, 

Clouds  take  up  their  stormy  march 
O'er  the  ocean  billows,  heaping 

Mountains  on  the  sloping  sands, 
There  are  ever  wildly  sweeping 

Shapeless  and  invisible  hands. 

Echoes  full  of  truth  and  feeling 
From  the  olden  bards  sublime. 

Are,  like  spirits,  brightly  stealing 
Through  the  broken  walls  of  time. 


114  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

The  universe,  that  glorious  palace, 
Thrills  and  trembles  as  they  float, 

Like  the  little  blossom's  chalice 
With  the  humming  of  the  mote. 

On  the  air,  as  birds  in  meadows  — 

Sweet  embodiments  of  song  — 
Leave  their  bright  fantastic  shadows 

Trailing  goldenly  along. 
Till,  aside  our  armor  laying, 

We  like  prisoners  depart. 
In  the  soul  is  music  playing 

To  the  beating  of  the  heart. 


ORPHAN'S   SONG. 

On  the  white  cliffs  of  the  ocean 

The  sea-bird  rests  her  wing : 
For  the  meek  and  patient  camel 

Of  the  desert,  there 's  a  spring  : 
But  the  shore  hath  rocks  as  steady 

Whereon  weary  feet  may  stand. 
And  fountains  flow  more  sweetly 

From  the  meadow  than  the  sand. 

We  are  orphans,  poor  and  homeless, 

And  the  tempest  whistles  loud ; 
But  the  stars  of  heaven  are  hiding 

In  the  meshes  of  the  cloud. 
With  the  sleet  our  locks  are  stiffened. 

And  our  path  is  white  with  snow. 
And  we  leave  the  print  of  naked  feet 

Behind  us  as  we  go. 

But  we  've  honest  hearts,  my  brothers, 

And  sinewy  hands  beside. 
And  our  mother's  benediction 

That  she  gave  us  when  she  died; 
And  whatever  may  befall  us. 

We  will  never  bow  our  souls 
But  to  Him  who  kept  the  Hebrews 

In  the  furnace  of  hot  coals. 


BOOK   OF  LIGHT,     .  115 


BRIDGES. 

My  friend,  thou  art  mournful  and  heavy, 
That  life  is  a  transient  breath  — 

Disheartened,  it  may  be,  with  hearing 
The  moan  of  the  river  of  death. 

Up !  work  out  the  fate  of  a  hero. 

Or  perish  at  least  in  the  strife ; 
Even  we  may  be  builders  of  bridges 

Eor  the  passage  of  souls  into  Life. 

As  the  wave  of  existence  is  drifting 
And  rushing  to  darkness  and  death. 

Let  us  hew,  with  the  sword  of  the  spirit, 
White  blocks  from  the  deep  mine  of  faith. 

The  rainbow  shall  o'erarch  our  bridges, 

Olives  the  pathway  shall  pave, 
And  the  beautiful  stone  of  the  corner 

Rest  on  the  floor  of  the  grave. 

Like  bright  birds  under  the  rafters 
Shall  hover  the  good  deeds  we  do, 

And  the  fair  pillars  shine  with  the  beauty 
Of  lives  to  humanity  true. 

My  friend,  wilt  thou  lend  me  thy  counsel  ? 

And  then,  if  thou  wilt,  we  will  strive 
O'er  the  river  of  death  to  build  bridges, 

That  souls  may  o'erpass  it  and  live. 


BOOK   OF   LIGHT. 

Gextlest  sister,  I  am  weary  — 

Bring,  oh,  bring  the  Book  of  Light ! 

There  are  shadows  dark  and  dreary 
Settling  on  my  heart  to-night. 


116  PQEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

That  alone  can  soothe  my  sadness, 
That  alone  can  dry  my  tears, 

When  I  see  no  spot  of  gladness 
Down  the  dusky  vale  of  years. 

Well  I  know  that  I  inherit 

All  that  sometimes  makes  me  blest  j 

And  in  vain  I  ask  my  spirit 
Why  this  feeling  of  unrest. 

But  all  day  have  been  around  me 
Voices  that  would  not  be  still, 

And  the  twilight  shades  have  found  me 
Shrinking  from  a  nameless  ill. 

Seeing  not  despair's  swift  lightning  — 
Hearing  not  the  thunders  roll, 

Hands  invisible  are  tightening 
Bands  of  sorrow  on  my  soul. 

Out  beneath  the  jewelled  arches 

Let  us  bivouac  to-night, 
And  to  soothe  days'  dusty  marches 

Bring,  oh,  bring  the  Book  of  Light ! 


THE   CHILD   OF   NATUEE. 

Haste,  haste,  my  gentle  sisters, 
Break  away  from  slumber's  chain. 

The  light  of  morn  streams  redly 
Through  my  chamber  lattice  pane ! 

I  hear  the  wild  birds  calling 

With  their  sweet  throats  all  in  tune 
'T  is  the  goldenest  of  the  mornings 

Of  the  merry  month  of  June  ! 

On  the  horizon's  blue  edges 
The  sweet  light  dimly  burns. 

And  the  summer  dew  is  dropping 
From  the  roses'  crimson  urns. 


WHERE   REST   THE   DEAD?  117 

Leaving  toilet  and  mirror  — 

With  the  sunshine  on  the  hill 
I  will  let  the  breezes  dally 

With  my  tresses  as  they  will ! 

The  spray-wreaths  of  the  fountains 

In  the  light  of  such  a  morn, 
Must  be  like  the  snowy  fleeces 

Of  the  lambs  among  the  corn. 

Why  should  the  heart  be  folded 

In  the  mantle  of  dim  care, 
In  so  glorious  a  temple 

For  the  offering  up  of  prayer  ? 


WHERE   REST   THE   DEAD? 

Answer,  thou  star  whose  brightening  ray 
Foretells  the  gathering  shades  of  night, 

If  so  ^t  is  given  thee,  where  are  they 
Who  pass  from  mortal  sight  ? 

We  know  in  some  green  isle  of  bliss, 
Where  clouds  and  tempests  never  roll, 

There  is  a  holier  home  than  this  — 
A  triumph  for  the  soul ! 

The  early  birds,  the  summer  flowers, 
The  tearful  spring-time  has  restored; 

But  when  shall  they  again  be  ours 
O'er  whom  our  love  was  poured  ? 

We  look  to  see  the  spirit's  track, 
And  hear  the  stir  of  wings  above. 

And  call,  but  win  no  answer  back, 
Nor  token  of  their  love. 

While  kindred  smiles  and  tones  of  mirth 
Are  mingling  brightly  as  the  waves. 

There  still  rests  darkly  on  our  hearth 
A  shadow  from  the  graves. 


118  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Answer,  thou  star  whose  brightening  ray 
Foretells  the  gathering  shades  of  night. 

If  so  't  is  given  thee,  where  are  they 
Who  pass  from  mortal  sight  ? 


LYRA:  A   LAMENT.* 

Maidens,  whose  tresses  shine. 

Crowned  with  daffodil  and  eglantine, 

Or,  from  their  stringed  buds  of  brier  roses, 

Bright  as  the  vermeil  closes 

Of  April  twilights  after  sobbing  rains, 

Fall  down  in  rippled  skeins 

And  golden  tangles  low 

About  your  bosoms,  dainty  as  new  snow ; 

While  the  warm  shadows  blow  in  softest  gales 

Fair  hawthorn  flowers  and  cheery  blossoms  wdiite 
Against  your  kirtles,  like  the  froth  from  pails 

O'er  brimmed  with  milk  at  night, 
When  lowing  heifers  bury  their  sleek  flanks 
In  wdnrows  of  sweet  hay  or  clover  banks  — 
Corme  near  and  hear,  I  pray, 
My  plained  roundelay. 

Where  creeping  vines  o'errun  the  sunny  leas, 
Sadly,  sweet  souls,  I  watch  your  shining  bands, 
Filling  with  stained  hands 

Your  leafy  cups  with  lush  red  strawberries ; 
Or  deep  in  murmurous  glooms, 
In  yellow  mosses  full  of  starry  blooms. 
Sunken  at  ease  —  each  busied  as  she  likes. 

Or  stripping  from  the  grass  the  beaded  dews, 
Or  picking  jagged  leaves  from  the  slim  spikes 

Of  tender  pinks  —  with  warbled  interfuse 
Of  poesy  divine, 

That  haply  long  ago 

Some  wretched  borderer  of  the  realm  of  woe 
Wrought  to  a  dulcet  line ;  — 
If  in  your  lovely  years 
There  be  a  sorrow  that  may  touch  with  tears 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra"  and  revised  in  the  volume  of  1855.     The  revision  is  given 
here. 


LYRA:   A    LAMENT.  119 

The  eyelids  piteously,  they  must  be  shed 
For  Lyra,  dead. 

The  mantle  of  the  May 

Was  blown  almost  within  the  summer's  reach, 
And  all  the  orchard  trees, 

Apple,  and  pear,  and  peach, 
Were  full  of  yellow  bees. 

Flown  from  their  hives  away. 
The  callow  dove  upon  the  dusty  beam 

Fluttered  its  little  wings  in  streaks  of  light. 

And  the  gray  swallow  twittered  full  in  sight ; 
Harmless  the  unyoked  team 

Browsed  from  the  budding  elms,  and  thrilling  lays 

Made  musical  prophecies  of  brighter  days ; 
And  all  went  jocundly.     I  could  but  say, 
Ah  !  well-a-day  !  — 
What  time  spring  thaws  the  wold. 
And  in  the  dead  leaves  come  up  sprouts  of  gold, 
And  green  and  ribby  blue,  that  after  hours 
Encrown  with  flowers ; 
Heavily  lies  my  heart 
From  all  delights  apart, 
Even  as  an  echo  hungry  for  the  wind. 
When  fail  the  silver-kissing  waves  to  unbind, 
The  music  bedded  in  the  drowsy  strings 

Of  the  sea's  golden  shells  — 
That,  sometimes,  with  their  honeyed  murmurings 

Fill  all  its  underswells  ;  — 
For  o'er  the  sunshine  fell  a  shadow  wide 
When  Lyra  died. 

When  sober  Autumn,  with  his  mist-bound  brows. 

Sits  drearily  beneath  the  fading  boughs. 

And  the  rain,  chilly  cold. 

Wrings  from  his  beard  of  gold, 

And  as  some  comfort  for  his  lonesome  hours, 

Hides  in  his  bosom  stalks  of  withered  flowers, 

I  think  about  what  leaves  are  drooping  round 

A  smoothly  shapen  mound. 

And  if  the  wild  wind  cries 

Where  Lyra  lies. 

Sweet  shepherds  softly  blow 


120  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Ditties  most  sad  and  low  — 

Piping  on  hollow  reeds  to  your  pent  sheep  — 

Calm  be  my  Lyra's  sleep, 

Unvexed  with  dream  of  the  rough  briers  that  pull 

From  his  strayed  lambs  the  wool ! 

Oh,  star,  that  tremblest  dim 

Upon  the  welkin's  rim. 

Send  with  thy  milky  shadows  from  above 

Tidings  about  my  love; 

If  that  some  envious  wave 

Made  his  untimely  grave, 

Or  if,  so  softening  half  my  wild  regrets, 

Some  coverlid  of  bluest  violets 

Was  softly  put  aside, 

What  time  he  died ! 

Nay,  come  not,  piteous  maids. 

Out  of  the  murmurous  shades ; 

But  keep  your  tresses  crowned  as  you  may 

With  eglantine  and  daffodillies  gay. 

And  with  the  dews  of  myrtles  wash  your  cheeks, 

When  flamy  streaks, 

Uprunning  the  gray  orient,  tell  of  morn  — 

While  I,  forlorn. 

Pour  all  my  heart  in  tears  and  plaints,  instead, 

For  Lyra,  dead. 


IN   ILLNESS  * 


No  harsh  complaint  nor  rude  unmannered  woe 

Shall  jar  discordant  in  the  dulcet  flow 

Of  music,  raining  through  the  chestnut  wings 

Of  the  wild  plaining  dove. 
The  while  I  touch  my  lyre's  late  shattered  strings. 

Mourning  about  my  love. 

Now  in  the  field  of  sunset.  Twilight  gray. 
Sad  for  the  dying  day. 

With  wisps  of  shadows  binds  the  sheaves  of  gold 
And  Night  comes  shepherding  his  starry  fold 
Along  the  shady  bottom  of  the  sky. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra"  and  revised  in  the  volume  of  1855.    The  revision  is  given 
here, 


IN  ILLNESS.  121 

Alas,  that  I 

Sunken  among  life's  faded  ruins  lie  — 

My  senses  from  their  natural  uses  bound ! 

What  thing  is  likest  to  my  wretched  plight?  — 
A  barley  grain  cast  into  stony  ground, 

That  may  not  quicken  up  into  the  light. 

Erewhile  I  dreamed  about  the  hills  of  home 
Whereon  I  used  to  roam ; 

Of  silver-leaved  larch. 
And  willows,  hung  with  tassels,  when  like  bells 
Tinkle  the  thawing  runnel's  brimming  swells ; 

And  softly  filling  in  the  front  of  March 
The  new  moon  lies. 

Watching  for  harebells,  and  the  buds  that  ease 
Heart's  lovelorn,  and  the  spotted  adder's  tongue, 
Dead  heaped  leaves  among  — 
The  verdurous  season's  cloud  of  witnesses ; 

Of  how  the  daisy  shines 

White,  i'  the  knotty  and  close-nibbled  grass; 
Of  thickets  full  of  prickly  eglantines. 

And  the  slim  spice-wood  and  red  sassafras, 
Stealing  between  whose  boughs  the  twinkling  heats 
Suck  up  the  exhaled  sweets 
From  dew-embalmed  beds  of  primroses. 
That  all  unpressed  lie. 
Save  of  enamored  airs,  right  daintily, 

And  golden-ringed  bees ; 
Of  atmospheres  of  hymns, 

When  wings  go  beating  up  the  blue  sublime 
From  hedgerows  sweet  with  vermeil-sprouting  limbs, 

In  April's  showery  time, 
When  lilacs  come,  and  straggling  flag-flowers,  bright. 
As  any  summer  light 

Ere  yet  the  plowman's  steers 
Browse  through  the  meadows  from  the  traces  free. 
Or  steel-blue  swallows  twitter  merrily. 
With  slant  wings  shaving  close  the  level  ground, 
Where  with  his  new-washed  ewes  thick  huddled  round, 

The  careful  herdsman  plies  the  busy  shears. 
But  this  was  in  life's  May, 
Ere  Lyra  was  away  ; 
And  this  fond  seeming  now  no  longer  seems — ■ 


122  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Aching  and  drowsy  pains  keep  down  my  dreams ;  — 

Even  as  a  dreary  wind 

Within  some  hollow,  black  with  poison  flowers, 

Swoons  into  silence,  dies  the  hope  that  lined 
My  lowly  chamber  with  illumined  wings, 

In  life's  enchanted  hours, 
When,  tender  oxlips  mixed  through  yellow  strings 
Of  muUeinstars,  with  myrtles  interfused, 
Pulled  out  of  pastures  green,  I  gaily  used 
To  braid  up  with  my  hair.     Ah,  well-a-day ! 
Haply  the  blue  eyes  of  another  May, 
Open  from  rosy  lids,  I  shall  not  see, 
For  the  white  shroud-folds.     If  it  thus  must  be. 
Oh,  friends  who  near  me  keep 
To  watch  or  weep, 

When  you  shall  see  the  coming  of  the  night 
Comfort  me  with  the  light 
Of  Lyra's  love. 
And  pray  the  saints  above 
To  pity  me,  if  it  be  sin  to  know 
Heaven  here  below. 


HYMN   TO   THE   NIGHT.* 

Midnight,  beneath  your  sky, 

Where  streaks  of  soft  blue  lie 

Between  the  starry  ranks 

Like  rivers  with  white  lilies  on  their  banks, 

Frown  not  that  I  am  come, 
A  little  while  to  stay 
From  the  broad  light  of  day. 

My  passion  shall  be  dumb. 
Nor  vex  with  faintest  moan 
For  my  life's  summer  flown 
The  drowsy  stillness  hanging  on  the  air. 
Therefore,  with  black  despair 
Let  me  enfold  my  brow  — 
I  come  to  gather  the  gray  ashes  now 
That  in  the  long  gone  hours 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra  "  ftnd  revised  in  the  volume  of  1855,    The  revision  is  giveg 
here. 


HYMN   TO    THE   NIGHT.  123 

Were  blushing  flowers. 

Give  me  some  gentle  comfort,  gentle  Night, 

For  their  untimely  blight, 

Feeding  my  soul  with  the  delicious  sounds 

Of  waters  washing  over  hollow  grounds 

Through  beds  of  hyacinths,  and  rushes  green 

With  yellow  ferns  and  broad-leaved  flags  between ; 

Where  the  south  winds  do  sleep, 

Forgetting  their  white  cradles  in  the  deep. 

The  future  is  all  dim, 
No  more  my  locks  I  trim 

With  myrtles  or  gay  pansies,  as  I  used, 
Or  with  slim  jasmines  strung  with  pretty  flowers. 
As  in  the  blessed  hours 

Ere  yet  I  sadly  mused. 
Or  covered  up  from  my  lamenting  eyes 
The  too  sweet  skies. 
With  withered  holly  or  the  bitter  rue. 
As  now,  alas  !  I  do. 

Since  Lyra,  for  whose  sake  the  world  was  fair, 
Is  lost,  I  know  not  where, 
Ah  me  !  my  sweetest  song 
Must  do  his  beauty  wrong  — 
To  his  white  hands  I  give  my  heavy  heart, 
Saying,  Lovely  as  thou  art, 
Be  kindly  piteous  of  my  hapless  woe !  — 
Full  well  I  know 

How  changed  I  am  since  all  my  young  heart-beats 
Were  full  of  joyance,  as  of  pastoral  sweets 
The  long  bright  summer  times 
When  Love  first  taught  me  rhymes. 
Yet,  dear  one,  in  thy  smile 
The  light  they  knew  erewhile 
My  eyes  would  gather  back,  and  in  my  cheek 
Beneath  thy  lip  the  flush  of  spring  would  break. 
Come,  thou,  about  whose  visionary  bier 
I  strew  in  softest  fear 

Pale  flowers  of  mandrakes  in  the  nightly  dreams, 
That  fly  when  morning  streams 
Slant  through  my  casement  and  fades  off  again, 
Soothing  no  jot  my  pain  — 
Come  back  and  stay  with  me 


124  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

And  we  will  lovers  be ! 

In  the  brown  shadows  of  the  autumn  trees, 

Lingering  behind  the  bees 

Till  the  rough  winds  do  blow 

And  blustery  clouds  are  full  of  chilly  snow, 

We  '11  sing  old  songs,  and  with  love  ditties  gay 

Beguile  the  hours  away. 

And  I  with  ivy  buds  thy  locks  will  crown. 
And  when  in  all  their  pretty  lengths  of  gold 
Straightened  with  moisture  cold 

Sorrowfully  drop  they  down. 
My  hands  shall  press  them  dry,  the  while  I  keep 
Soft  watches  for  thy  sleep. 
Weaving  some  roundelay, 
Of  that  pale  huntress,  haply,  whose  blue  way 

Along  the  heavens  was  lost. 
Finding  the  low  earth  sweeter  than  the  skies  — 
Kissing  the  love-lit  eyes 

Of  the  fair  boy  Endymion,  as  he  crossed 
The  leafy  silence  of  the  woods  alone, 
In  the  old  myth-time  flown ; 
Haply  of  Proteus,  all  his  dripping  flocks 
Along  the  wild  sea-rocks 

Driving  to  pastures  in  fresh  sprouting  meads. 
His  sad  brows  crowned  with  green  murmurous  reeds 
For  love  of  Leonora  —  she  for  whom 
The  blank  blanched  sands  were  shapen  to  a  tomb. 
Where,  under  the  wild  midnight's  troubled  frown, 
With  his  pale  burden  in  his  arms,  went  down 
Her  mortal  lover.     Moaningly  the  waves 
Wash  by  two  lonesome  graves ; 
One  holds  the  ashes  of  the  beauteous  boy 
Whose  harmless  joy 
Of  playing  the  fifth  season  in  the  sun. 
Was  all  untimely  done. 

Away,  my  dream,  away ! 

Like  young  buds  blackened  in  the  front  of  May 

And  wasted  in  the  rude  and  envious  frost, 

My  early  hopes  are  lost. 

Oh  angel  of  the  darkness,  come  and  make. 

For  pity's  sake, 
My  bed  with  sheets  as  white  as  sheets  may  be, 


THE   MINSTREL.  125 

And  give  me  sweeter  grace  to  go  with  thee, 
Than  e'er  became  my  life.     No  lures  have  I, 

To  draw  thee  nigh, 
Of  beauty,  wit,  or  friends  to  make  ado ; 

Haply,  or  one  or  two. 
Seeing  me  in  my  shroud,  would  sigh,  "Alas!" 
As  for  a  daisy  gone  out  of  the  grass 
Wherein  bloomed  better  flowers.     If  so  it  fall, 
It  were  an  end  befitting  most  of  all 

The  close  of  my  bad  fortunes.     Thou 

Hearing  my  pleading  now, 
Knowest  well  how  true  I  speak, 
There  be  no  prints  of  kisses  on  the  cheek 
I  hide  against  thy  bosom,  praying  to  go 
Down  to  the  chamber  low, 

Where  I  shall  be  wed 

With  Lyra,  dead. 


THE  MINSTREL. 

Beneath  a  silvery  sycamore 

His  willow  pipe  I  saw  him  playing. 

The  heifer  down  the  hill  was  straying  — 
Her  lengthening  shadow  went  before, 

Toward  the  near  stubble-land :  the  lowing 
Of  labored  oxen,  pasturing. 

Called  her  that  way.     The  wind  was  blowing, 
And  the  tall  reeds  against  a  spring 

Of  unsunned  waters,  slantwise  fell. 

But  you  might  hear  his  song  right  well  — 

"  I  would  that  I  were  bird  or  bee, 
Or  anything  that  I  am  not  — 
Sweet  lady-love,  I  care  not  what, 

So  I  might  live  and  die  with  thee." 

The  grass  beneath  its  flowery  cover 

Was  softly  musical  with  bees  ; 

But  well-a-day  !  what  sights  may  please 
The  eyes  of  an  enchanted  lover  ? 
In  dusty  hollows,  here  and  there, 

Among  gnarled  roots  the  flocks  were  lying, 

O'erclomb  by  lambs ;  and  homeward  flying, 


126  POEMS   BY  ALICE    GARY. 

The  birds  made  dusky  all  the  air; 
The  yellow  light  began  to  fade 

From  the  low  tarn  —  the  day  was  o'er; 
And  still  his  willow  pipe  he  played, 
Under  the  silvery  sycamore: 
"  I  would  that  I  were  bird  or  bee, 
Or  anything  that  I  am  not  — 
Lost  Lady-love,  1  care  not  what, 
So  I  might  live  and  die  with  thee." 

Down  through  the  long  blue  silences 

Came  the  owl's  cry ;  fire-flies  were  trimming 
Their  torches  for  the  night,  and  skimming 
Athwart  the  glooms  ;  between  the  trees. 
Went  the  blind,  wretched  bat :  Ah  me, 
The  night  and  sorrow  well  agree  ! 

The  meadow  king-cups  and  the  furze 
Were  pretty  with  the  harvest  dew, 
And  in  the  brook  the  thistle  threw 

The  shadows  of  its  many  burs. 

I  wis,  he  lovely  was  to  see. 

In  the  gray  twilight's  pallid  shade, 
As  on  his  willow  pipe  he  played. 

Crowned  with  "  buds  of  poesy  "  — 
"  I  would  that  I  were  bird  or  bee. 
Or  anything  that  I  am  not  — 
A  sound,  a  breeze,  I  care  not  what, 
So  I  might  live  and  die  with  thee." 

Faint  gales  of  starlight  from  above 
Blew  softly  from  the  casement  light 
Across  the  pillow,  milky  white. 

Where  slept  the  lady  of  his  love. 
The  floating  tresses,  black  as  sloe. 
Fell  tangled  round  the  dainty  snow 

Of  cheek  and  bosom.     Gentle  seemed 

The  lady,  smiling  as  she  dreamed. 
But  not  of  him  her  visions  are. 

Who,  for  the  sake  of  the  sweet  light 
Within  her  casement,  vexed  the  night  — 
Her  thoughts  are  travelers  otherwhere. 


HYALA.  127 

At  midnight  on  a  jutting  cliif, 

A  raven  flapped  his  wings  and  cried ; 

Faintly  the  willow  pipe  replied  — 
The  hands  upon  its  stops  were  stiff. 

Under  the  silvery  sycamore 

The  mournful  playing  was  all  done  — 
If  there  be  angels,  he  was  one, 

For  surely  all  his  pain  was  o'er. 
At  morn  a  lady  walked  that  way. 

And  when  she  saw  his  quiet  sleeping, 

Upon  the  flowers,  she  fell  a-weeping, 
And  for  her  tears  she  could  not  pray. 
I  had  been  little  used  to  speak 

Of  comfort,  but  was  moved  to  see 
Her  piteous  heart  so  near  to  break. 

For  the  pale  corse  beneath  the  tree ; 
And  so,  to  soothe  her  grief,  I  said 

The  way  he  died,  and  told  his  song ; 

"  Alas,  he  loved  me  well  and  long," 
She  sighed ;  "  I  would  that  we  were  wed 

As  lovers  use,  or  else  that  I 
AVere  anything  that  I  am  not. 
Or  bird,  or  bee,  I  care  not  what. 

Here  in  the  pleasant  flowers  to  die." 

The  mist,  with  many  a  soft  fold,  shrouds 
The  eastern  hills,  birds  wake  their  hymns, 
And  through  the  sycamore's  white  limbs 

Shines  the  red  climbing  of  the  clouds. 
Making  my  rhymes,  I  heard  her  sigh, 

"  Ah,  well-a-day,  that  we  were  wed 
As  lovers  use,  or  else  that  I 

Here  on  the  pleasant  flowers  were  dead  ! " 


HYALA. 


Low  by  the  reedy  sea  went  ancient  Ops, 
Tracking  for  crownless  Saturn  :  quietly 
From  her  gray  hair  waned  off  the  sober  light. 
For  Eve,  that  Cyclops  of  the  burning  eye, 
Slow  pacing  down  the  slumberous  hills,  was  gone. 


128  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Under  the  black  boughs  of  a  cedarn  wood, 

Weary  of  hunting,  Dian  lay  asleep, 

Kissed  by  the  amorous  winds.     Close  to  her  feet, 

Cropping  the  scant  ambrosia,  lo  came, 

Her  slender  neck  hung  round  with  modest  bells 

Of  asphodel,  the  gift  of  Jupiter, 

Who,  for  the  jealous  love  that  Juno  had. 

Made  her  the  milk-white  heifer  that  she  was. 

So  slept  the  huntress  while,  hard  by  the  wood 

Where  the  slant  sunset  lay  in  crimson  gores 

Athwart  the  dimness,  that  most  chaste  of  maids 

Whom  Dian  loved,  cold-bosomed  Hyala, 

Stood  leaning  on  her  slack  bow,  all  alone  — 

Her  forehead  smooth  as  ice,  and  ivy -bound, 

And  in  her  girdle  of  blue  hyacinths 

Three  sharpest  arrows. 

All  unconsciously, 
Tripping  bare-footed  through  the  violets, 
Idalia,  fairest  shepherdess  of  all  — 
In  her  white  hands  her  silver  milking-bowl. 
And  on  her  lip  the  music  of  a  heart 
Hungry  for  love  —  crossed  the  near  field,  her  song 
Sweetly  dividing  the  blue  silent  air : 

"  0  fair  Scamander,  bed  of  loveliness, 
When  wilt  thou  give  my  naked  limbs  to  lie 
Among  thy  marriage  pillows,  white  as  foam  !  " 

In  the  pale  cheek  of  Hyala  burned  out 
An  angry  color,  as  she  saw  her  sit 
Singing  and  milking  in  her  silver  bowl. 
One  lily  shoulder,  under  rippling  lengths 
Of  dropping  tresses,  pressing  light  the  flank 
Of  a  plump  goat,  with  eyes  as  black  as  sloe. 
And  hoofs  of  pinky  silver,  dimpling  deep 
The  wild  green  turf  thick-sprouting  on  a  ridge 
That  topt  a  flowery  slope  in  Thessaly. 

Scorn  curled  the  lip  of  listening  Hyala, 
And  drawing  from  her  belt  the  nimblest  shaft. 
Straight  from  her  steady  hand  it  sped  and  sunk 
Deep  in  the  forehead  of  the  harmless  beast. 
That  moaning  fell,  and  bled  into  the  grass : 
So  Hyala  went  laughing  on  her  way. 


GRAND-DAME   AND   CHILD.  129 


GEAND-DAME   AND   CHILD. 

The  maple's  limbs  of  yellow  flowers 

Made  spots  of  sunshine  here  and  there 
In  the  bleak  woods ;  a  merry  pair 

Of  blue-birds,  which  the  April  showers 
Had  softly  called,  were  come  that  day ; 
Another  week  would  bring  the  May 

And  all  the  meadow-grass  w^ould  shine 
With  strawberries ;  and  all  the  trees 
Whisper  of  coming  blooms,  and  bees 

Work  busy,  making  golden  wine. 

The  white-haired  grand-dame,  faint  and  sick, 

Sits  fretful  in  her  chair  of  oak ; 

The  clock  is  nearly  on  the  stroke 
Of  all  the  day's  best  hour,  and  quick 

The  dreamy  house  will  glimmer  bright  — 
No  candle  needed  any  more. 

For  Miriam's  smile  is  so  like  light, 
The  moths  fly  with  her  in  the  door. 

The  lilies  carved  in  her  chair 

The  grand-dame  counts,  but  cannot  tell 
If  they  be  three  or  seven  ;  the  pair 

Of  merry  blue-birds,  singing  well, 
She  does  not  hear ;  nor  can  she  see 

The  moonshine,  cold,  and  pure,  and  bright, 

Walk  like  an  angel  clothed  in  white, 
The  path  where  Miriam  should  be. 

Almost  she  hears  the  little  feet 
Patter  along  the  path  of  sands ; 

Her  eyes  are  making  pictures  sweet. 
And  every  breeze  her  cheek  that  fans, 

Half  cheat  her  to  believe,  I  wis. 

It  is  her  pretty  grandchild's  kiss. 

The  dainty  hood,  her  fancy  too 
Sees  hanging  on  the  cabin  wall, 

And  from  her  modest  eyes  of  blue. 
Fair  Miriam  putting  back  the  fall 


130  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Of  her  brown  hair,  and  laughing  wild  — 

Her  darling  merry-hearted  child, 
Then  with  a  step  as  light  and  low 
As  any  wood-birds  in  the  snow. 

She  goes  about  her  household  cares. 

"  The  saints  will  surely  count  for  prayers, 

The  duties  love  doth  sweeten  so," 
Says  the  pleased  grand-dame  ;  but  alas ! 
No  feet  are  pattering  on  the  grass, 
No  hood  is  hanging  on  the  wall  — 
It  was  a  foolish  dreaming,  all. 

The  morning-glories  winding  up 

The  rustic  pillars  of  the  shed, 
Oj^en  their  dark  bells,  cup  by  cup, 

To  the  June's  rainy  clouds ;  the  bed 
Of  rosemary  and  meadow-sweet 

Which  Miriam  kept  with  so  much  care, 

Is  run  to  weeds,  and  everywhere 
Across  the  paths  her  busy  feet 

Wore  smooth  and  hard,  the  grass  has  grown 

And  still  the  grand-dame  sits  alone, 
Counting  the  lilies  in  her  chair  — 

Her  ancient  chair  of  carved  oak  — 

And  fretful,  listening  for  the  stroke 
Of  the  old  clock,  and  for  the  pair 

Of  blue-birds  that  have  long  been  still ; 

Saying,  as  o'er  the  neighboring  hill 
The  shadows  gather  thick  and  dumb  — 
"  'T  is  time  that  Miriam  were  come." 

And  now  the  spiders  cease  to  weave. 

And  from  between  the  corn's  green  stems 
Drawing  after  her  her  scarlet  hems. 
Dew-dappled,  the  brown-vested  Eve 
Slow  to  his  purple  pillows  drops ; 
His  tired  team  now  the  plowman  stops ; 
In  the  dim  woods  the  axe  is  still. 
And  sober,  winding  round  the  hill. 

The  cows  come  home.     "  Come,  pretty  one, 
I  'm  watching  for  you  at  the  door," 
Calls  the  old  grand-dame  o'er  and  o'er, 
"  'T  is  time  the  working  all  were  done." 


AGATHA    TO  HAROLD.  131 

And  kindly  neighbors  come  and  go, 

But  gently  piteous ;  none  have  said, 
"  Your  pretty  grandchild  sleepeth  so 

We  cannot  wake  her ;  "  but  instead 
Piling  the  cushions  in  her  chair, 

Carved  in  many  a  quaint  design 

Of  leaves  and  lilies,  nice  and  fine, 
They  tell  her  she  must  not  despair 

To  meet  her  pretty  child  again  — 
To  see  her  wear  forevermore, 

A  smile  of  brighter  love  than  when 
The  moths  flew  with  her  in  the  door. 


AGATHA   TO   HAROLD* 

Come  there  ever  memories,  Harold, 

Like  a  half-remembered  song 
From  the  time  of  gladness  vanished 

Down  the  distance,  oh,  so  long ! 
Come  they  to  me  —  not  in  sadness, 

For  they  strike  into  my  soul, 
As  the  sharp  axe  of  the  woodsman 

Strikes  the  dead  and  sapless  bole. 

Just  across  the  orchard  hill-top, 

Through  the  branches  gray  and  bare. 
We  can  see  the  village  church-yard  — 

I  shall  not  be  lonesome  there. 
When  the  cold  wet  leaves  are  falling 

On  the  turfless  mound  below. 
You  will  sometimes  think  about  me, 

You  will  love  me  then,  I  know. 
In  the  window  of  my  chamber 

Is  a  plant  with  pale  blooms  crowned  — 
If  the  sun  shines  warm  to-morrow. 

In  that  quiet  church-yard  ground 
I  will  set  it;  and  at  noontimes, 

When  the  school-girls  thither  wend, 
They  will  see  it  o'er  me  blossom 

And  believe  I  had  a  friend. 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra"  and  revised  in  the  volume  of  1855.      The  revision  is  givea 
here. 


132  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY, 

Knowest  thou  the  time,  oh  Harold, 

When  at  many  a  green  mound's  head 
Read  we  o'er  the  simple  records 

Love  had  written  of  the  dead. 
While  the  west  was  faintly  burning,  . 

Where  the  cloud}^  day  was  set. 
Like  a  blushing  press  of  kisses  — 

Ah,  thou  never  canst  forget ! 

"  Thou  art  young,"  thou  saidst,  "  thy  future 

All  in  sunlight  seems  to  shine  — 
Art  content  to  crown  thy  may  time 

Out  of  autumn  love  like  mine  ? 
Couldst  thou  see  my  locks  a  fading 

With  no  sorrow  and  no  fears  ?  — 
Por  thou  knowest  I  stand  in  shadows 

Deep  to  almost  twice  thy  years." 
In  that  time  my  life-blood  mounted 

From  my  bosom  to  my  brow. 
And  I  answered  simply,  truly  — 

(I  was  younger  then  than  now)  — 
"  Were  it  strange  if  that  a  daisy 

Sheltered  from  the  tempest  stroke, 
Bloomed  contented  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  overarching  oak  ?  " 

When  the  sun  had  like  a  herdsman 

Clipt  the  misty  waves  of  morn, 
By  the  breezes  driven  seaward 

Like  a  flock  of  lambs  new-shorn ; 
Thou  hadst  left  me,  and  oh,  Harold, 

Half  in  gladness,  half  in  tears, 
I  was  gazing  down  the  future 

O'er  the  lapses  of  the  years ; 
To  what  time  the  clouds  about  me  — 

All  my  night  of  sorrow  done  — 
Should  blow  out  their  crimson  linings 

O'er  the  rising  of  love's  sun ; 
And  I  said  in  exultation, 

"  Not  the  bright  ones  in  the  sky. 
Then  shall  know  a  sweeter  pleasure 

Than,  my  Harold,  thou  and  I." 


LEGEND   OF  SEVILLE.  133 

Thrice  the  scattered  seed  had  sprouted 

As  the  spring  thaw  reappeared, 
And  the  winter  frosts  had  grizzled 

Thrice  the  autumn's  yellow  beard ; 
When  that  lovely  day  of  promise 
Darkened  with  a  dread  eclipse, 
And  my  heart's  long  clasped  joyance 

Died  in  moans  upon  my  lips. 
Silent,  saw  I  other  maidens 
To  a  thousand  pleasures  wed  — 

"Save  me  from  the  past,  good  angel !  " 

This  was  all  the  prayer  I  said. 
Sometimes  they  would  smile  upon  me 

As  their  gay  troops  passed  me  by, 
Saying  softly  to  each  other, 

"  How  is  she  content  to  die  ? '' 
Oh,  they  little  guess  the  barren 

Wastes  on  which  my  visions  go. 
And  the  conflicts  fierce  but  silent 

That  at  last  have  made  me  so. 
Shall  the  bright-winged  bird  be  netted 

Singing  in  the  open  fields, 
And  not  struggle  with  the  fowler. 
Long  and  vainly  ere  it  yields  — 
Or  the  heart  to  death  surrender 
Mortal  hoping  without  strife  ? 
But  the  struggle  now  is  ended  — 
Give  me,  God,  a  better  life ! 


LEGEND   OF   SEVILLE. 

Three  men  that  three  gray  mules  bestrode 
Went  riding  through  a  lonesome  road  — 
Dust  from  the  largest  to  the  least 
Up  to  the  fetlock  of  each  beast. 

The  foremost  was  a  stripling  pale; 
"  Comrades,"  he  said,  "  within  our  hail 
I  see  a  hostel,  white  as  snow  — 
'T  is  nightfall  —  shall  we  thither  go  ?  '* 


134  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

"  Nay,"    said  the  other  two,  "  in  sooth 
'T  is  white  enough,  but  of  a  truth, 
Too  lowly  for  our  courtly  need  — 
We  '11  gain  a  fairer  with  good  speed." 

So,  pa^t  the  hostel  white  they  rode, 
These  men  that  three  gray  mules  bestrode, 
Till  led  the  pale  young  moon  afar, 
By  her  slim  silver  horn,  one  star. 

Right  wistfully  then  looking  back. 
Cried  out  the  middle  man,  "  Alack ! 
I  spy  a  rude  black  inn  —  shalt  see 
If  the  host  have  good  wine  for  three  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  the  hindmost,  "  by  my  troth 
Shamed  is  ray  knighthood  for  ye  both."  — 
So,  pricking  sharply,  on  they  rode, 
These  men  who  three  gray  mules  l3estrode. 

Close  where  a  whimpering  river  lay 
Stood  huts  of  fishers ;  all  that  day 
Drying  their  loose  nets  in  the  sun. 
They  told  how  murders  might  be  done. 

A  moorish  tower  of  yellow  stone 
Shadowed  that  river-bridge,  o'ergrown 
With  lichen  and  the  marish  moss  — 
Forward  the  stripling  rode  to  cross. 

Close  came  the  others  man  by  man. 
But  farther  than  the  shadow  ran. 
The  legend  says,  they  never  rode. 
These  men  who  three  gray  mules  bestrode. 


TO    THE    WINDS.  135 


TO   THE   WINDS.* 

Talk  to  my  heart,  oh  winds  — 
Talk  to  my  heart  to-night ; 

My  spirit  always  finds 
With  you  a  new  delight, 

Finds  always  new  delight, 

In  your  silver  talk  at  night. 

Give  me  your  soft  embrace 

As  you  used  to  long  ago. 
In  your  shadowy  trysting  place. 

When  you  seemed  to  love  me  so  — 
When  you  sweetly  kissed  me  so, 
On  the  green  hills  long  ago. 

Come  up  from  your  cool  bed, 
In  the  stilly  twilight  sea, 

For  the  dearest  hope  lies  dead, 
That  was  ever  dear  to  me ; 

Come  up  from  your  cool  bed. 

And  we  '11  talk  about  the  dead. 

Tell  me,  for  oft  you  go. 

Winds,  lovely  winds  of  night, 

About  the  chambers  low 

With  sheets  so  dainty  white, 

If  they  sleep  through  all  the  night, 

In  the  beds  so  chill  and  white : 

Talk  to  me,  winds,  and  say. 

If  in  the  grave  be  rest ; 
For,  oh,  life's  little  day 

Is  a  weary  one  at  best ; 
Talk  to  my  heart  and  say 

If  death  will  give  me  rest. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1865. 


136  POEMS   BY  ALICE    GARY. 

ANNUAEIES. 
I* 

A  YEAR  has  gone  down  silently 

To  the  dark  quiet  of  the  Past 
Since  I  beneath  this  very  tree 

Sat  hoping,  fearing,  dreaming,  last ; 
Its  waning  glories,  like  a  flame, 

Are  trembling  to  the  wind's  light  touch — 
All  just  a  year  ago  the  same, 

And  I  —  oh!  I  —  am  changed  so  much! 

The  beauty  of  a  wildering  dream 

Hung  softly  round  declining  day ; 
A  star  of  all  too  sweet  a  beam 

In  Eve's  flushed  bosom  trembling  lay ; 
Changed  in  its  aspect,  yet  the  same. 

Still  climbs  that  star  from  sunset's  glow, 
But  its  embrace  of  beauteous  flame 

No  longer  clasps  the  world  from  woe. 

Another  year  shall  I  return, 

And  cross  the  solemn  chapel  floor. 
While  round  me  memory's  shrine-lamps  burn  — 

Or  shall  this  pilgrimage  be  o'er  ? 
One  that  I  loved,  grown  faint  with  strife. 

When  dropped  and  died  the  tenderer  bloom, 
Folded  the  white  tent  of  young  life 

For  the  pale  army  of  the  tomb. 

The  dry  seeds  dropping  from  their  pods, 

The  hawthorn  apples  bright  as  dawn, 
And  the  gray  mullen's  starless  rods, 

Were  just  as  now  a  year  agone ; 
But  changed  is  everything  to  me. 

From  the  small  flower  to  sunset's  glow 
Since  last  I  sat  beneath  this  tree, 

A  year  —  a  little  year  —  ago. 

*  This  first  "  Annuary  "  was  reprinted  with  some  verbal  changes,  in  the  volume 
of  1S55,  from  the  volume  of  1850.  The  first,  second,  third,  and  fourth  were  printed 
in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  volume  of  1855, 


ANNUARIES.  137 

I  leaned  against  this  broken  bough, 

This  faded  turf  my  footstep  pressed ; 
But  glad  hopes  that  are  not  Uiere  now, 

Lay  softly  trembling  in  my  breast  — 
Trembling,  for  through  the  golden  haze 

Rose,  as  the  dead  leaves  drifted  by. 
As  from  the  Vala  of  old  days, 

The  mournful  voice  of  prophecy. 

Give  woman's  heart  one  triumph  hour, 

Even  on  the  borders  of  the  grave, 
And  thou  hast  given  her  strength  and  power 

The  saddest  ills  of  life  to  brave; 
Crush  that  far  hope  down,  thou  dost  bring 

To  the  poor  bird  the  tempest's  wrath, 
Without  the  petrel's  stormy  wing 

To  beat  the  darkness  from  its  path. 

Once  knowing  mortal  hope  and  fear, 

Whate'er  in  heaven's  sweet  clime  thou  art, 
Bend,  pitying  mother,  softly  near. 

And  save,  O  save  me  from  my  heart ! 
Be  still,  oh  mournful  memory. 

My  knee  is  trembling  on  the  sod  — 
The  heir  of  immortality, 

A  child  of  the  eternal  God. 


II. 

When  last  year  took  her  mournful  flight. 

With  all  her  train  of  woe  and  ill. 
As  pale  possessions  sweep  at  night 

Across  some  lonesome  burial  hill  — 
My  soul  with  sorrow  for  its  ;uate. 

And  bowed  with  unrequited  wrong. 
Stood  knocking  at  the  starry  gate 

Of  the  wild  wondrous  realm  of  song. 

Hope  from  my  noon  of  life  was  gone. 
With  all  the  sheltering  peace  it  gave. 

And  a  dim  twilight  stealing  on. 

Foretold  the  night-time  of  the  grave. 


138  POEMS   BY  ALICE    CARY. 

Past  is  that  time  of  wild  unrest, 
Hope  reillumes  its  faded  track, 

And  the  soft  hand  of  love  has  prest 
Death's  deep  and  awful  shadows  back. 

A  year  agone,  when  wildly  shrill 

The  wind  sat  singing  on  this  bough 
The  churchyard  on  the  neighboring  hill 

Had  not  so  many  graves  as  now. 
Yet  am  I  spared  —  God  knoweth  why, 

And  by  the  hand  of  fancy  led, 
The  same  as  in  the  years  gone  by, 

Musing  this  idle  rhyme  I  tread. 

When  the  May-morn,  with  hand  of  light, 

The  clouds  about  her  bosom  drew, 
And  o'er  the  blue,  cold  steeps  of  night 

Went  treading  out  the  stars  like  dew  — 
One,  whose  dear  joy  it  had  been  ours 

Two  little  summer  times  to  keep. 
Folded  his  white  hands  from  the  flowers, 

And,  softly  smiling,  fell  asleep. 

And  when  the  northern  light  streamed  cold 

Across  October's  moaning  blast, 
One  whose  brief  tarrying  was  foretold 

All  the  sweet  summer  that  was  past, 
Meekly  unlocked  from  her  young  arms 

The  scarcely  faded  bridal  crown, 
And  in  death's  fearful  night  of  storms 

The  dim  day  of  her  life  went  down. 

Above  yon  reach  of  level  mist 

Bright  shines  the  cross-crowned  spire  afar. 
As  in  the  sky'si  clear  amethyst 

The  splendor  of  some  steadfast  star ; 
And  still  beneath  its  steady  light 

The  waves  of  time  heave  to  and  fro, 
From  night  to  day,  from  day  to  night, 

As  the  dim  seasons  come  and  go. 

Some  eager  for  ambition's  strife, 
Some  to  love's  banquet  hurrying  on. 


ANNUARIES.  139 

Like  pilgrims  on  the  hills  of  life 

We  cross  each  other,  and  are  gone ; 
But  though  our  lives  are  little  drops, 

Welled  from  the  infinite  fount  above, 
Our  deaths  are  but  the  mystic  stops 

In  the  great  melody  of  love. 


III. 


Vailing  the  basement  of  the  skies 

October's  mists  hang  dull  and  red. 
And  with  each  wild  gust's  fall  and  rise, 

The  yellow  leaves  are  round  me  spread  ; 
'T  is  the  third  autumn,  aye,  so  long ! 

Since  memory  'neath  this  very  bough, 
Thrilled  my  sad  lyre  strings  into  song  — 

What  shall  unlock  their  music  now  ? 

Then  sang  I  of  a  sweet  hope  changed. 

Of  pale  hands  beckoning,  glad  health  fled, 
Of  hearts  grown  careless  or  estranged, 

Of  friends,  or  living,  lost,  or  dead. 
O  living  lost,  forever  lost, 

Your  light  still  lingers,  faint  and  far, 
As  if  an  awful  shadow  crossed 

The  bright  disk  of  the  morning  star. 

Blow,  autumn,  in  thy  wildest  w^ath, 

Down  from  the  northern  woodlands,  blow  ! 
Drift  the  last  wild-flowers  from  my  path  — 

What  care  I  for  the  summer  now ! 
Yet  shrink  I,  trembling  and  afraid 

From  searching  glances  inward  thrown ; 
What  deep  foundation  have  I  laid, 

For  any  joyance  not  my  own  ? 

While  with  my  poor,  unskilful  hands. 
Half  hopeful,  half  in  vague  alarm. 

Building  up  walls  of  shining  sands 
That  fell  and  faded  with  the  storm, 

E'en  now  my  bosom  shakes  with  fear. 
Like  the  last  leaflets  of  this  bough. 


140  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

For  through  the  silence  I  can  hear, 
"  Unprofitable  servant,  thou !  " 

Yet  have  there  been,  there  are  to-day 

In  spite  of  health,  or  hope's  decline, 
Fountains  of  beauty  sealed  away 

From  every  mortal  eye  but  mine ; 
Even  dreams  have  filled  my  soul  with  light, 

And  on  my  way  their  splendor  left. 
As  if  the  darkness  of  the  night 

Were  by  some  planet's  rising  cleft. 

And  peace  hath  in  my  heart  been  born. 

That  shut  from  memory  all  life's  ills, 
In  walking  with  the  blue-eyed  morn 

Among  the  white  mists  of  the  hills. 
And  joyous,  I  have  heard  the  wails 

That  heave  the  wild  woods  to  and  fro. 
When  autumn's  crown  of  crimson  pales 

Beneath  the  winter's  hand  of  snow. 

Once,  leaving  all  its  lovely  mates. 

On  yonder  lightning-withered  tree. 
That  vainly  for  the  springtime  waits, 

A  wild  bird  perched  and  sang  for  me ; 
And  listening  to  the  clear  sweet  strain 

That  came  like  sunshine  o'er  the  day, 
My  forehead's  hot  and  burning  pain 

Fell  like  a  crown  of  thorns  away. 

But  shadows  from  the  western  height 

Are  stretching  to  the  valley  low, 
For  through  the  cloudy  gates  of  night 

The  day  is  passing,  solemn,  slow. 
While  o'er  yon  blue  and  rocky  steep 

The  moon,  half  hidden  in  the  mist, 
Waits  for  the  loving  wind  to  keep 

The  promise  of  the  twilight  tryst. 

Come  thou,  whose  meek  blue  eyes  divine, 
What  thou,  and  only  thou  canst  see, 

1  wait  to  put  my  hand  in  thine  — 
What  answer  sendest  thou  to  me  ? 


ANNUARIES.  141 

Ah  !  thouglits  of  one  whom  helpless  blight 
Had  pushed  from  all  fair  \\o\)e.  apart, 

Making  it  thenceforth  hers  to  tight 
The  stormy  battles  of  the  heart. 

"Well,  I  have  no  complaint  of  wrath, 

And  no  reproaches  for  my  doom ; 
Spring  cannot  blossom  in  thy  path 

So  bright  as  I  would  have  it  bloom. 

IV. 

Oh,  sorrowful  and  faded  years. 

Gathered  away  a  time  ago, 
How  could  your  deaths  the  fount  of  tears 

Have  troubled  to  an  overflow  ? 
I  muse  upon  the  songs  I  made 

Beneath  the  maple's  yellow  limbs, 
When  down  the  aisles  of  thin  cold  shade 

Sounded  the  wild  bird's  farewell  hymns. 

But  no  sad  spell  my  spirit  binds 

As  when,  in  days  on  which  it  broods, 
October  hunted  with  the  winds 

Along  the  reddening  sunset  woods. 
Alas,  the  seasons  come  and  go. 

Brightly  or  dimly  rise  and  set 
The  days,  but  stir  no  fount  of  woe. 

Nor  kindle  hope,  nor  wake  regret. 

I  sit  with  the  complaining  night. 

And  underneath  the  waning  moon. 
As  when  the  lilies  large  and  white 

Lay  round  the  forehead  of  the  June, 
What  time  within  a  snowy  grave 

Closed  the  blue  eyes  so  heavenly  dear, 
Darkness  swept  o'er  me  like  a  wave. 

And  time  has  nothing  that  I  fear. 

The  golden  wings  of  summer's  hours 
Make  to  my  heart  a  dirge-like  sound, 

The  spring's  sweet  boughs  of  bridal  flowers 
Lie  bright  across  a  smooth-heaped  mound. 


142  .  POEMS   BY  ALICE    GARY. 

What  care  I  that  I  sing  to-day 

Where  sound  not  the  old  plaintive  hymns, 
And  where  the  mountains  hide  away 

The  sunset  maple's  yellow  limbs  ? 


V. 

On  the  brown,  flowerless  meadow  lies 

The  wraith  of  summer ;  oat  flowers  bright 
Nod  heavy  on  her  death-blind  eyes, 

Smiling  with  melancholy  light. 
And  Autumn,  with  his  eyelids  red 

Drooped  to  her  beauty,  sits  to-day, 
His  sad  heart  sweetly  comforted 

By  storms  upon  their  starless  way. 

Seasons  continuous,  mingling,  thrill 

Our  souls,  as  notes  that  sweetly  blend, 
Until  we  cannot,  if  we  will. 

Tell  where  they  or  begin  or  end. 
And  while  the  blue  fly  sings  so  well, 

And  while  the  cricket  chirps  so  low : 
In  the  bright  grass,  I  scarce  can  tell 

If  there  be  daisy-flakes,  or  snow. 

But  when  along  the  slumberous  blue, 

And  dreamy,  quiet  atmosphere, 
I  look  to  find  the  April  dew, 

I  know  the  Autumn  time  is  here. 
The  lampless  hollow  of  the  skies 

Is  full  of  mists,  or  blank,  or  dun ; 
Where  all  day,  soft  and  warm,  there  lies 

A  shadow  that  should  be  the  sun. 

The  winds  go  noiseless  on  their  way. 

Scarcely  the  lightest  twig  is  stirred ; 
Not  through  the  wild  green  boughs  of  May 

Slips  the  blue  lizard  so  unheard. 
Under  the  woolly  mullen,  flat 

Against  the  dust,  together  creep 
The  shining  beetles ;  and  the  bat 

Is  drowsing  to  his  winter  sleep. 


ANNU ARIES.  143 

The  iron-weeds'  red  tops  are  down, 

Wilted  from  all  their  summer  sheen 
The  fennel's  golden  buds  are  brown, 

And  loneliest  in  all  the  scene : 
Hither  and  thither  lightly  blows 

A  white  cloud  o'er  the  darkening  wood, 
Like  some  unpastured  lamb  that  goes 

Climbing  and  wandering  for  food. 

But  plenty  gladdens  all  the  world, 

For  corn  is  ripe,  if  flowers  be  o'er  ; 
Autumn,  with  yellow  beard  uncurled 

In  summer's  grave-damps,  sigh  no  more ! 
Sigh  no  more,  Autumn !  sigh  no  more  — 

For  if  the  blooming  boughs  have  shed 
Their  pleasant  leaves,  the  light  will  pour 

So  much  the  brighter  on  thy  head. 

And  while  thy  mourning  voice  is  staid 

I  '11  play  my  pipe,  so  adding  on 
Another  to  the  rhymes  I  made 

Ere  youth,  my  pretty  mate,  was  gone. 
Winds,  stirring  through  the  pinetops  high, 

Or  hovering  on  the  ocean's  breast. 
Blow  softly  on  the  ways  that  lie 

Sloping  and  brightening  toward  the  West. 

Blow  softly,  for  my  thoughts  would  sweep, 

Upon  your  still  and  beauteous  weaves, 
Back  to  the  woodlands  green  and  deep, 

Back  to  the  firesides  and  the  graves  — 
The  firesides  of  the  rosiest  glow. 

The  graves  wherein  my  kindred  rest ; 
Winds  of  the  jSTorthland,  softly  blow. 

And  bear  me  to  the  lovely  West. 

There  linger  sweetest  voices  yet. 

That  ever  soothed  from  grief  its  pain ; 

There  glow  the  hills  with  suns  long  set, 
And  there  my  heart  grows  young  again. 

The  hope  which  in  the  crimson  boughs 
Shut  up  her  wings  dim  years  away. 


144  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Sits  with  her  wan  and  crownless  brows 
Leaned  on  the  sodded  grave  to-day. 

For  when  the  last  sweet  vision  died 

She  nursed  for  me,  there  fell  a  night 
Cloudy  and  black  enough  to  hide 

Her  smile's  almost  eternal  light. 
When  the  unkenneled  whining  winds, 

Went  last  year  tracking  through  the  snow, 
My  heart  was  comforted  with  friends 

Gone  on  the  last  long  journey  now  — 

Who  in  the  middle  heavens  can  view 

The  noontide  sun  without  a  sigh  — 
A  yearning  for  the  faded  dew 

Where  morning's  broken  splendors  lie. 
And  from  the  glory  up  above, 

My  eyes  come  down  to  earth  and  mark 
The  pain,  the  sorrow  for  lost  love  — 

The  awful  transit  to  the  dark. 

Weak  and  unworthy,  still  I  live, 

Harvests  and  plenteous  boughs  to  see ; 
My  God !  how  good  thou  art  to  give 

Such  blessings  as  I  have  to  me. 
Oh  !  add  to  these  all  needful  grace  — 

Divide  me  from  that  proud  disdain, 
Climbing  against  the  sunless  base 

Of  an  eternity  of  pain. 

VI. 

Once  more  my  annual  harp !  alas, 

'T  is  the  sixth  season  nearly  run 
Since  the  brown  lizard  through  the  grass 

Crept  slow,  and  took  the  autumn  sun: 
Since  the  wild  maple  boughs  above 

Shook  down  their  leaves  of  gold  and  red, 
The  while  I  made  ray  song  of  love  — 

If  there  be  angels  overhead. 


•■is^ 


Methinks  before  their  watchful  eyes 

They  well  may  cross  their  wings  and  rest; 


ANNUARIES.  145 

What  need  they  guardians  in  the  skies 

Who  with  a  human  love  are  blest  ? 
Ah  me !  what  wretched  storms  of  tears 

Have  made  maturer  life  a  dearth, — 
For  the  white  visions  of  young  years 

Grow  dimmer  than  the  common  earth  ? 

In  vain  !  the  sw^art  October  brings, 

In  its  rough  arms,  no  April  day  — 
The  ousel  plunges  its  wild  wings 

But  in  the  rainy  brooks  of  May. 
The  rose  that  in  the  June  time  rain 

Comes  open,  could  not,  if  it  would 
Shut  up  its  red-ripe  leaves  again. 

And  go  back  to  a  blushing  bud. 

And  when  the  step  is  dull  and  slow^ 

And  when  the  eye  no  longer  beams 
With  the  glad  hopes  of  years  ago, 

What  purpose  has  the  heart  with  dreams  ? 
Away,  wild  thoughts  of  sorrow's  flood  — 

Wild  dreams  of  early  love,  away  ! 
In  calm  and  passionless  womanhood. 

Why  come  ye  thronging  back  to-day ! 

And  you,  ye  questionings  that  rise. 

Of  life  and  death  and  hope's  surcease. 
Seal  up  again  your  mockeries  — 

Peace,  peace  !  I  charge  you  give  me  peace  ! 
And  let  me  from  the  pain  and  gloom 

Gather  whatever  seems  like  truth, 
Forgetful  of  the  opening  tomb. 

Forgetful  of  the  closing  youth. 

Fain  would  my  thoughts  a  searching  go 

For  one  who  left  me  years  away  — 
Haply  the  unblest  grasses  grow 

Upon  his  sweet  shut  eyes,  to-day. 
Oft  when  the  evening's  mellow  gleam 

Falls  slantwdse  o'er  some  western  hill. 
And  like  a  ponderous,  golden  beam 

Lies  rocking  —  all  my  heart  grows  still. 


146  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Listening  and  listening  for  the  fall 

Of  his  dear  step,  the  cold  moon  shines 
Betimes  across  the  southern  hall, 

And  the  black  shadows  of  the  vines 
O'erblow  the  mouldy  walls,  and  lie 

Heavy  along  the  winding  walks  — 
Where  oft  we  set,  in  Mays  gone  by, 

Streaked  lady-grass  and  hollyhocks. 

Within  a  stone's  throw  seems  the  sky 

Against  the  faded  woods  to  bend, 
Just  as  of  old  the  corn-fields  lie ; 

But  we,  oh,  we  are  changed,  my  friend ! 
Since  last  I  saw  these  maples  fade, 

The  locusts  in  the  burial  ground 
Have  wrapt  their  melancholy  shade 

About  a  new  and  turfless  mound. 

And  one  who  last  year  heard  with  me 

The  summer's  dirges  wild  and  dread, 
Has  joined  the  peaceful  company 

Whom  we,  the  living,  mourn  as  dead. 
Turning  for  solace  unto  thee, 

Oh,  Future !  from  the  pleasures  gone, 
Misshapen  earth,  through  mists  I  see. 

That  fancy  dare  not  look  upon. 

God  of  the  earth  and  heaven  above. 

Hear  me  in  mercy,  hear  me  pray  — 
Let  not  one  golden  strand  of  love 

From  my  life's  skein  be  shorn  away, 
Or  if,  in  thy  all-wise  decree. 

The  edict  be  not  written  so, 
Grant,  Lord  of  light,  the  earnest  plea 

That  I  may  be  the  first  to  go. 

And  when  the  harper  of  wide  space 
Shall  chant  again  his  mournful  hymn. 

While  on  the  summer's  pale  dead  face 
The  leaves  are  dropping  thick  and  dim  - 

When  songs  of  robins  all  are  o'er. 
And  when  his  work  the  ant  forsakes. 


LOST  LIGHT.  147 

And  in  the  stubbly  glebe  no  more 
The  grasshopper  his  pastime  takes  — 

What  time  the  gray-roofed  barn  is  full, 

The  sober  smiling  harvest  done, 
And  whiter  than  the  late  washed  wool, 

The  flax  is  bleaching  in  the  sun  — 
The  friends  who  sewed  my  shroud,  sometimes 

Shall  come  about  my  grave:  in  tears 
Repeating  over  saddest  rhymes 

From  annuaries  of  past  years. 


LOST   LIGHT. 

So,  close  the  window !  gray  and  blank  the  sky 
Slopes  to  the  nightfall,  and  the  wintry  woods 
Stand  black  and  desolate ;  I  shall  not  see 
Spring,  like  a  sunrise  running  o'er  the  hills, 
Nor  yet  the  lark,  for  love's  insanity 
Fly  at  the  stars,  singing  his  heart  away. 

In  other  seasons,  I  was  little  used 
To  miss  the  wild  green  boughs :  thick  flaws  of  rain 
Fell  round  me  like  the  moonlight. 

Once,  I  know, 
A  mower  brought  me  some  red  berries  home. 
And  in  bright  plaits  I  wore  them  in  my  hair, 
Playing  along  the  meadow-side  all  day. 
I  wish  that  time  were  back.     A  foolish  thought ! 
Its  faith  and  love  are  fallen  to  dead  dust 
Where  hope  sets  slips  of  roses  all  in  vain ; 
And  as  the  stormy,  dull,  and  gusty  eve 
Shuts  in  the  day,  my  day  is  closing  too ; 
The  playing  in  the  meadows  is  all  done. 

Mine  is  the  common  error,  to  have  given, 
For  shallow  possibilities,  the  straight 
And  even  chance  of  every  probable  good  — 
From  fields  of  flowers  to  have  but  singled  out 
The  bright  one  that  was  deadly,  and  to  strive 
Through  prayer  and  passion  vainly  to  win  back 
My  blind  way  into  peace,  crying  to  be 
Needless  of  all  excuse  —  to  be  a  child. 


148  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Treading  cool  furrows  scented  with  crushed  roots, 
To  chase  the  stubble  for  the  humming  bird, 
And  sing  out  with  the  homely  grasshopper. 

That  once  sweet  music,  April's  pleasant  rain. 
Plashing  against  the  roof,  grown  thick  with  moss, 
Comes  to  me  as  though  muffled  by  the  clods. 
The  tall  reeds  slant  together  as  the  winds 
Go  piping  through  them,  shepherding  the  lambs 
Where  tiny  fountains  lie  in  hollow  grounds, 
Rimmed  round  with  uncropt  daisies  and  bright  grass. 
Birds  mate  and  sing  together,  blossoming  twigs 
Swing  down  with  golden  bees,,  the  anthills  swarm. 
And  the  black  spider  in  his  loom  of  limbs 
Weaves  busily.     The  sad  crow  calls  alone, 
The  milk-maid  plats  her  straw,  the  heifer's  low 
E-uns  through  the  twilight,  quick  the  harmless  bat 
Flattens  his  thick  damp  wings  against  the  pane. 
Love  makes  its  lullaby,  brown  crickets  run 
Along  the  hearth-light,  proud  bright  hollyhocks 
Grow  in  the  village  garden  with  the  corn. 
Lilies  o'ertop  the  meadows,  rough  wild  trees 
Sprout  out  with  verdure  ;  for  the  pleasant  time. 
Glossy  with  purple  plaits,  out  of  their  holes 
Snakes  travel  limberly  ;  blood-hungry  beasts 
Lean  their  great  foreheads  close  and  lovingly ; 
Moles  wallow  toward  the  light ;  the  sentinel  cock 
Cries  all  the  watches ;  yet  no  more  the  morn. 
Upright  and  white,  smiles,  gathering  out  the  stars 
That  redden,  crown-like,  round  her  yellow  hair. 
But,  prone,  along  the  earth,  from  hill  to  hill, 
Slips  noiselike,"*  like  some  earth-burrowing  thing. 
That  only  lifts  its  pale  throat  in  the  sun. 

Oh,  if  I  dared  to  say  these  blushes  climb 
Up  to  my  cheek  from  a  heart  full  of  sin, 
Something  might  yet  be  done  —  my  blind  eyes  be 
Couched  to  some  apprehension  of  delight. 
Only  the  bad  go  sidling  to  the  truth 
Through  fate,  necessity  and  evil  chance. 
Saying,  "  I  trifled  with  a  tempting  thing  — 
Berry  or  leaf  —  an  ugly-headed  worm  — 
Call  it  a  viper  —  say  I  kissed  its  mouth, 
Or  once,  or  twice,  or  of tener,  if  you  will  — 

*  Perhaps  a  misprint  for  "  noiselessl}'." 


PA  UL.  149 

And  what  of  that,  if  it  was  but  a  part 

That  needs  must  be  in  life  ?     Am  I  to  blame  ? 

Shrinking,  yet  drawn  along  by  baffling  power, 

Even  as  the  shamble's  bloody  enginery 

Winds  close  against  the  windlass  the  beast's  head.'' 

Ay,  who  can  be  absolved  by  conscience  so, 
Or  bring  the  lost  light  back  into  the  world ! 


PAUL. 


Crossing  the  stubble,  where,  erewhile. 
The  golden-headed  wheat  had  been, 

I  saw,  and  knew  him  by  his  smile. 

Night,  sad  with  rain,  was  flowing  in  — 

I  drew  the  curtains,  soft  and  warm. 
And  when  the  room  was  full  of  light, 

We  sat  —  half  listening  to  the  storm, 
Half  talking  —  all  the  dreary  night. 

From  their  wet  sheds,  we  heard  the  moan 
Our  oxen  made  —  a  pretty  pair  — 

And  heard  the  dead  leaves  often  blown 
In  gusty  eddies,  here  and  there. 

The  dull-eyed  spider  ran  along 

The  smoky  rafters  ;  the  gray  mouse 

Crossed  the  bare  floor ;  and  his  wild  song 
The  cricket  made  through  all  the  house. 

Twisting  the  brown  hair  into  rings, 

Above  his  meditative  eyes, 
I  counted  all  the  long-gone  springs 

That  we  had  sown  with  flowers ;  his  sighs 

Came  thick  and  fast,  as  well  they  might, 
But  when  I  said,  how  on,  and  on, 

For  his  sake,  I  had  kept  them  bright  — 
The  slow,  reproachful  smile  was  gone. 


150  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

And  seeing  that  my  spoken  truth 
Glowed  in  my  silent  looks,  the  same, 

All  the  proud  beauty  of  his  youth 
Back  on  his  faded  manhood  came. 

About  my  neck  he  clasped  his  arm, 
As  in  affection's  morning  prime, 

And  said,  how  blest  he  was  —  that  storm 
Was  sweeter  than  the  summer-time ! 

But  when  I  kissed  him  back,  and  said  — 
The  embers  never  cast  a  gleam 

Through  our  low  cabin,  half  so  red', 

Sleep  vanished  —  all  had  been  a  dream. 


TO   THE   SPIRIT   OF   GLADNESS  * 

Underneath  a  dreary  sky. 

Spirit  glad  and  free. 
Voyaging  solemnly  am  I 

Toward  an  unknown  sea. 
Falls  the  moonlight,  sings  the  breeze, 
But  thou  speakest  not  in  these. 

In  the  summers  overflown 

What  delights  we  had  ! 
Now  I  sit  all  day  alone. 

Weaving  ditties  sad ; 
But  thou  comest  not  for  the  sake 
Of  the  lonesome  rhymes  I  make. 

Faithless  spirit,  spirit  free. 
Where  mayst  thou  be  found  ? 

Where  the  meadow  fountains  be 
Raining  music  round. 

And  the  thistle  burs  so  blue 

Shine  the  livelong  day  with  dew. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


THE    TRYST.  151 


Keep  thee,  in  thy  pleasant  bowers, 
From  my  heart  and  brain  ; 

Even  the  summer's  lap  of  flowers 
Could  not  cool  the  pain  ; 

And  for  pallid  cheek  and  brow 

What  companionship  hast  thou  ? 

Erewhile,  when  the  rainy  spring 

Filled  the  pastures  full 
Of  sweet  daisies  blossoming 

Out  as  white  as  wool ; 
We  have  gathered  them  and  made 
Beds  of  Beauty  in  the  shade. 

Would  that  I  had  any  friend 

Lovingly  to  go 
To  the  hollow  where  they  blend 

With  the  grasses  low, 
And  a  pillow  soft  and  white 
Make  for  the  approaching  night. 


THE   TRYST.* 

The  moss  is  withered,  the  moss  is  brown 

Under  the  dreary  cedarn  bowers, 
And  fleet  winds  running  the  valleys  down 

Cover  with  dead  leaves  the  sleeping  flowers. 

White  as  a  lily  the  moonlight  lies 
Under  the  gray  oak's  ample  boughs ; 

In  the  time  of  June  't  were  a  paradise 
For  gentle  lovers  to  make  their  vows. 

In  the  middle  of  night  when  the  wolf  is  dumb. 
Like  a  sweet  star  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

They  say  that  a  damsel  at  times  will  come, 
And  brighten  the  chilly  light  under  the  tree. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1865. 


152  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

And  a  blessed  angel  from  out  the  sky 
Cometh  her  lonely  watch  to  requite  ; 

But  not  for  my  soul's  sweet  sake  would  I 
Pray  under  its  shadow  alone  at  night. 

A  boy  by  the  tarn  of  the  mountain  side 
Was  cruelly  murdered  long  ago, 

Where  oft  a  spectre  is  seen  to  glide 
And  wander  wearily  to  and  fro. 

The  night  was  sweet  like  an  April  night, 
When  misty  softness  the  blue  air  fills. 

And  the  freckled  adder's  tongue  makes  bright 
The  sleepy  hollows  among  the  hills. 

When,  startled  up  from  the  hush  that  broods 
Beauteously  o'er  the  midnight  time. 

The  gust  ran  wailing  along  the  woods 
Like  one  who  seeth  an  awful  crime. 

The  tree  is  withered,  the  tree  is  lost. 

Where  he  gathered  the  ashen  berries  red. 

As  meekly  the  dismal  woods  he  crossed  — 
The  tree  is  withered,  the  boy  is  dead. 

Now  nightly,  with  footsteps  slow  and  soft, 
A  damsel  goes  thither,  but  not  in  joy ; 

Put  thy  arms  round  her,  good  angel  aloft. 
If  she  be  the  love  of  the  murdered  boy. 

For  still  she  comes  as  the  daylight  fades. 
Her  tryst  to  keep  near  the  cedarn  bowers. 

Bear  with  her  gently,  tenderly,  maids. 
Whose  hopes  are  open  like  summer  flowers. 


JESSIE   CARROL.  15 


JESSIE   CARROL* 

I. 

At  her  window,  Jessie  Carrol, 

As  the  twilight  dew  distils. 
Pushes  back  her  heavy  tresses. 

Listening  toward  the  northern  hills. 
"  I  am  happy,  very  happy, 

None  so  much  as  I  am  blest  — 
None  of  all  the  many  maidens 

In  the  Valley  of  the  West," 
Softly  to  herself  she  whispered ; 

Paused  she  then  again  to  hear 
If  the  step  of  Allan  Archer, 

That  she  waited  for,  were  near. 
"  Ah,  he  knows  I  love  him  fondly !  — 

I  have  never  told  him  so  !  — 
Heart  of  mine,  be  not  so  heavy. 

He  will  come  to-night,  I  know." 

Brightly  is  the  full  moon  filling 

All  the  withered  woods  with  light, 
"  He  has  not  forgotten  surely  — 

It  was  later  yesternight !  " 
Shadows  interlock  with  shadows  — 

Says  the  maiden,  "  Woe  is  me  ! " 
In  the  blue  the  eve-star  trembles 

Like  a  lily  in  the  sea. 
Yet  a  good  hour  later  sounded,  — 

But  the  northern  woodlands  sway !  — 
Quick  a  white  hand  from  her  casement 

Thrust  the  heavy  vines  away. 
Like  the  wings  of  restless  swallows 

That  a  moment  brush  the  dew, 
And  again  are  up  and  upward, 

Till  we  lose  them  in  the  blue. 
Were  the  thoughts  of  Jessie  Carrol 

For  a  moment  dim  with  pain, 
Then  with  pleasant  waves  of  sunshine, 

On  the  hills  of  hope  again. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


(K 


154  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

"  Selfish  am  I,  weak  and  selfish," 

Said  she,  ''thus  to  sit  and  sigh: 
Other  friends  and  other  pleasures 

Claim  his  leisure  well  as  I. 
Haply,  care  or  bitter  sorrow 

'T  is  that  keeps  him  from  my  side, 
Else  he  surely  would  have  hasted 

Hither  at  the  twilight  tide. 
Yet  sometimes  I  can  but  marvel 

That  his  lips  have  never  said. 
When  we  talked  about  the  future 

Then,  or  then,  we  shall  be  wed  !  — 
Much  I  fear  me  that  my  nature 

Cannot  measure  half  his  pride. 
And  perchance  he  would  not  wed  me 

Though  I  pined  of  love  and  died. 
To  the  aims  of  his  ambition 

I  would  bring  nor  wealth  nor  fame. 
Well,  there  is  a  quiet  valley 

Where  we  both  shall  sleep  the  same ! " 
So,  more  eves  than  I  can  number, 

Now  despairing,  and  now  blest, 
Watched  the  gentle  Jessie  Carrol, 

From  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

II. 

Down  along  the  dismal  woodland 

Blew  October's  yellow  leaves, 
And  the  day  had  waned  and  faded, 

To  the  saddest  of  all  eves. 
Poison  rods  of  scarlet  berries 

Still  were  standing  here  and  there, 
But  the  clover  blooms  were  faded, 

And  the  orchard  boughs  were  bare. 
From  the  stubble-fields  the  cattle 

Winding  homeward,  playful,  slow, 
With  their  slender  horns  of  silver 

Pushed  each  other  to  and  fro. 
Suddenly  the  hound  up-springing 

From  his  sheltering  kennel,  whined, 
As  the  voice  of  Jessie  Carrol 

Backward  drifted  on  the  wind  — 


JESSIE   CARROL.  155 

Backward  drifted  from  a  pathway 

Sloping  down  the  upland  wild, 
Where  she  walked  with  Allan  Archer, 

Light  of  spirit  as  a  child ; 
All  her  young  heart  wild  with  rapture 

And  the  bliss  that  made  it  beat  — 
Not  the  golden  wells  of  Hybla 

Held  a  treasure  half  so  sweet ! 
But  as  oft  the  shifting  rose-cloud, 

In  the  sunset  light  that  lies, 
Mournful  makes  us,  feeling  only 

How  much  farther  are  the  skies, — 
So  the  mantling  of  her  blushes. 

And  the  trembling  of  her  heart, 
'Neath  his  steadfast  eyes  but  made  her 

Feel  how  far  they  were  apart. 

"  Allan,"  said  she,  "  I  will  tell  you 

Of  a  vision  that  I  had  — 
All  the  livelong  night  I  dreamed  it, 

And  it  made  me  very  sad. 
We  were  walking  slowly  seaward. 

In  the  twilight  —  you  and  1  — 
Through  a  break  of  clearest  azure 

Shone  the  moon  —  as  now  —  on  high ; 
Though  I  nothing  said  to  vex  you. 

O'er  your  forehead  came  a  frown. 
And  I  strove,  but  could  not  soothe  you  — 

Something  kept  my  full  heart  down  ; 
When,  before  us,  stood  a  lady 

In  the  moonlight's  pearly  beam. 
Very  tall  and  proud  and  stately  — 

(Allan,  this  was  in  my  dream  I  —  ) 
Looking  down,  I  thought,  upon  me, 

Half  in  pity,  half  in  scorn, 
Till  my  soul  grew  sick  with  wishing 

That  I  never  had  been  born. 
'  Cover  me  from  w^oe  and  madness  ! ' 

Cried  I  to  the  ocean  flood, 
As  she  locked  her  milk-white  fingers 

In  between  us  where  we  stood,  — 
All  her  flood  of  midnight  tresses 

Softly  gathered  from  their  flow, 


156  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

By  her  crown  of  bridal  beauty, 
Paler  than  the  winter  snow. 

Striking  then  my  hands  together, 
O'er  the  tumult  of  my  breast,  — 

All  the  beauty  waned  and  faded 
From  the  Valley  of  the  West !  " 

In  the  beard  of  Allan  Archer 

Twisted  then  his  fingers  white, 
As  he  said,  "  My  gentle  Jessie 

You  must  not  be  sad  to-night ; 
You  must  not  be  sad,  my  Jessie, 

You  are  over  kind  and  good. 
And  I  fain  would  make  you  happy. 

Very  happy  —  if  I  could  !  " 
Oft  he  kissed  her  cheek  and  forehead, 

Called  her  darling  oft,  but  said. 
Never,  that  he  loved  her  fondly. 

Or  that  ever  they  should  wed ; 
But  that  he  was  grieved  that  shadows 

Should  have  chilled  so  dear  a  heart, 
That  the  time,  foretold  so  often, 

Then  was  come  —  and  they  must  part ! 
Shook  her  bosom  then  with  passion. 

Hot  her  forehead  burned  with  pain, 
But  her  lips  said  only,  "  Allan, 

Will  you  ever  come  again  ?  " 
And  he  answered,  lightly  dallying 

With  her  tresses  all  the  while. 
Life  had  not  a  star  to  guide  him 

Like  the  beauty  of  her  smile. 
And  that  when  the  corn  was  ripened 

And  the  vintage  harvest  prest. 
She  would  see  him  home  returning 

To  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

When  the  moon  had  veiled  her  splendor, 
And  went  lessening  down  the  blue, 

And  along  the  eastern  hill-tops 
Burned  the  morning  in  the  dew, 

They  had  parted  — each  one  feeling 
That  their  lives  had  separate  ends ; 


JESSIE   CARROL.  ■  157 

They  had  parted  —  neither  happy  — 
Less  than  lovers  —  more  than  friends. 

For  as  Jessie  mused  in  silence, 
She  remembered  that  he  said, 

Never,  that  he  loved  her  fondly. 
Or  that  ever  they  should  wed. 

'T  was  full  many  a  nameless  meaning 

My  poor  words  can  never  say, 
Felt  without  the  need  of  utterance 

That  had  won  her  heart  away. 
0  !  the  days  were  weary  !  w^eary  ! 

And  the  eves  were  dull  and  long. 
With  the  cricket's  chirp  of  sorrow, 

And  the  owlet's  mournful  song. 
Out  of  slumber  oft  she  started 

In  the  still  and  lonesome  nights, 
Hearing  but  the  traveler's  footstep 

Hurrying  toward  the  village  lights. 

So  moaned  by  the  dreary  winter  — 

All  her  household  tasks  fulfilled  — 
Till  beneath  the  last  year's  rafters 

Came  the  swallows  back  to  build. 
Meadow-pinks,  in  flakes  of  crimson, 

Through  the  pleasant  valleys  lay. 
And  again  were  oxen  ploughing 

Up  and  down  the  hills  all  day. 
Thus  the  dim  days  dawned  and  faded 

To  the  maid,  forsaken,  lorn. 
Till  the  freshening  breeze  of  summer 

Shook  the  tassels  of  the  corn. 
Ever  now  within  her  chamber 

All  night  long  the  lamp-light  shines. 
But  no  white  hand  from  her  casement 

Pushes  back- the  heavy  vines. 
On  her  cheek  a  fire  was  feeding, 

And  her  hand  transparent  grew  — 
Ah,  the  faithless  Allan  Archer! 

More  than  she  had  dreamed  was  true. 

No  complaint  was  ever  uttered, 
Only  to  herself  she  sighed,  — . 


158  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

As  she  read  of  wretched  poets 

Who  had  pined  of  love  and  died. 
Once  she  crushed  the  sudden  crying 

From  her  trembling  lips  away, 
When  they  said  the  vintage  harvest 

Had  been  gathered  in  that  day. 
Often,  when  they  kissed  her,  smiled  she, 

Saying  that  it  soothed  her  pain, 
And  that  they  must  not  be  saddened  — 

She  would  soon  be  well  again ! 
Thus  nor  hoping  nor  yet  fearing, 

Meekly  bore  she  all  her  pain, 
Till  the  red  leaves  of  the  autumn 

Withered  from  the  woods  again ; 
Till  the  bird  had  hushed  its  singing 

In  the  silvery  sycamore, 
And  the  nest  was  left  unsheltered 

In  the  lilac  by  the  door ; 
Saying,  still,  that  she  was  happy  — 

None  so  much  as  she  was  blest  — 
None  of  all  the  many  maidens 

In  the  Valley  of  the  West. 

III. 

Down  the  heath  and  o'er  the  moorland 

Blows  the  wild  gust  high  and  higher, 
Suddenly  the  maiden  pauses 

Spinning  at  the  cabin  fire. 
And  from  out  her  taper  fingers 

Falls  away  the  flaxen  thread, 
As  some  neighbor,  entering,  whispers, 

"Jessie  Carrol  lieth  dead." 
Then,  as  pressing  close  her  forehead 

To  the  window-pane,  she  sees 
Two  stout  men  together  digging 

Underneath  the  church-yard  trees. 
And  she  asks  in  kindest  accents, 

"  Was  she  happy  when  she  died  ?  " 
Sobbing  all  the  while  to  see  them 

Void  the  heavy  earth  aside  ; 
Or,  upon  their  mattocks  leaning. 

Through  their  fingers  numb  to  blow^^ 


JESSIE    CARROL.  159 

For  the  wintry  air  is  chilly, 

And  the  grave-mounds  white  with  snow. 

And  the  neighbor  answers  softly, 

"  Do  not,  dear  one,  do  not  cry ; 
At  the  break  of  day  she  asked  us 

If  we  thought  that  she  must  die ; 
And  when  I  had  told  her,  sadly, 

That  I  feared  it  would  be  so, 
Smiled  she,  saying,  '  'T  will  be  weary 

Digging  in  the  churchyard  snow  ! ' 
Earth,  I  said,  was  very  dreary  — 

That  its  paths  at  best  were  rough ; 
And  she  whispered,  she  was  ready, 

That  her  life  was  long  enough. 
So  she  lay  serene  and  silent. 

Till  the  wind,  that  wildly  drove, 
Soothed  her  from  her  mortal  sorrow, 

Like  the  lullaby  of  love." 
Thus  they  talked,  while  one  that  loved  her 

Smoothed  her  tresses  dark  and  long. 
Wrapped  her  white  shroud  down,  and  simply 

Wove  her  sorrow  to  this  song : 


IV, 


Sweetly  sleeps  she :  pain  and  passion 

Burn  no  longer  on  her  brow  — 
Weary  watchers,  ye  may  leave  her  — 

She  no  more  will  need  you  now ! 
While  the  wild  spring  bloomed  and  faded, 

Till  the  autumn  came  and  passed, 
Calmly,  patiently,  she  waited  — 

Rest  has  come  to  her  at  last ! 
Never  have  the  blessed  angels, 

As  they  walked  with  her  apart. 
Kept  pale  Sorrow's  battling  armies 

Half  so  softly  from  her  heart. 
Therefore,  think  not,  ye  that  loved  her. 

Of  the  pallor  hushed  and  dread, 
Where  the  winds  like  heavy  mourners, 

Cry  about  her  lonesome  bed, 


160  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

But  of  white  hands  softly  reaching 
As  the  shadow  o'er  her  fell, 

Downward  from  the  golden  bastion 
Of  the  eternal  citadel. 


HYPEEION* 


In  the  May  woods  alone  —  yet  not  alone, 

For  unsubstantial  beings  near  me  tread  — 
At  times  I  hear  them  piteously  moan, 

Haply  a  plaint  for  the  o'ergifted  dead. 
That,  to  the  perfectness  of  stature  grown, 

Had  filled  for  aye  the  vacant  heart  of  time 
With  dulcet  rhythms,  and  cadences  unknown, 

In  all  the  sweetest  melody  of  rhyme. 

And  yet  alone,  for  not  a  human  heart 

Stirs  with  tumultuous  throbbings  the  deep  hushj 
Almost  I  hear  the  blue  air  fall  apart 

From  the  delirious  warble  of  the  thrush  — 
A  wave  of  lovely  sound,  untouched  of  art, 

Going  through  air  —  "  a  disembodied  joy  :  " 
But  in  between  each  blissful  stop  and  start, 

(Belike  such  sweet  food  else  our  hearts  would  cloy,) 

From  the  thick  woods  there  comes  into  the  vale 

A  long  and  very  melancholy  cry. 
As  of  a  spirit  in  that  saddest  bale  — 

Clinging  to  sin  yet  longing  for  the  sky. 
Across  the  hill-tops  crowned  with  verdure  pale, 

A  gnarled  oak  stands  above  the  neighboring  trees, 
Rocking  itself  asleep  upon  the  gale  — 

The  proudest  billow  of  the  woodland  seas. 

A  thin  dun  cloud  above  the  sunken  sun 

Holds  the  first  star  of  evening's  endless  train. 

Clasped  from  the  world's  profaneness,  like  a  nun 
Within  the  shelter  of  the  convent  pane. 

*  A  revision  of  "  Keats." 


HYPERION.  161 

Did  the  delicious  light  of  such  a  one 

Fleck  his  dark  pathway  with  its  shimmering  fire, 
Whose  lingers,  till  life's  little  day  was  done. 

Clung  like  charmed  kisses  to  his  wondrous  lyre  ? 

I  've  read,  in  some  chance  fragment  of  old  song, 

A  tale  to  muse  of  in  this  lovely  light. 
About  a  maiden,  flying  from  deep  wrong 

Into  the  chilly  darkness  of  the  night. 
Upon  whose  milk-white  bosom,  cold  and  long. 

Beat  the  rough  tempest ;  but  a  waiting  arm 
Was  reaching  toward  her,  and,  in  hope  grown  strong. 

Fled  she  along  the  woods  and  through  the  storm. 

But  how  had  he  or  heart  or  hope  to  sing 

Of  Madeline  or  Porphyro  the  brave, 
While  the  thin  fingers  of  wan  suffering 

Were  pressing  down  his  eyelids  to  the  grave  ? 
How  could  he  to  the  shrine  of  genius  bring 

The  constant  spirit  with  the  bended  knee, 
Euffling  the  horrent  blackness  of  Death's  wing 

With  the  clear  echoes  of  eternity  ? 

Hark !  was  it  but  the  wind  that  swept  along, 

Shivering  the  hawthorn  hedges,  white  with  flowers  ? 
The  swan-like  music  of  the  dying  song 

Seems  swimming  on  the  current  of  the  hours. 
If  Fancy  cheats  me  thus,  she  does  no  wrong  — 

For  mists  of  glory  o'er  my  heart  are  blown. 
And  shapes  of  beauty  round  about  me  throng. 

When  of  that  mused  rhyme  I  catch  the  tone. 

Tell  me,  ye  sobbing  winds,  what  sign  ye  made, 

Making  the  year  with  dismal  .pity  rife. 
When  the  all-levelling  and  remorseless  shade 

Closed  o'er  the  lovely  summer  of  his  life : 
Did  the  sad  hyacinths  by  the  fountains  fade. 

And  tear-drops  touch  the  eyelids  of  the  morn. 
And  Muses,  empty-armed,  the  gods  upbraid. 

When  that  great  sorrow  to  the  world  was  born  ? 

Ere  Fame's  wild  trumpet  to  the  world  had  thrown 
The  echo  of  his  lyre,  or  fortune  bless'd, 


162  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Pausing  where  "  men  but  hear  each  other  groan," 
He  felt  the  daisies  growing  on  his  breast. 

Then  sunk  as  fair  a  star  as  ever  shone 
Along  the  gray  and  melancholy  air ; 

And  from  Parnassus'  hoary  front,  o'erstrown 
With  plants  immortal,  moaned  infirm  Despair. 

Weave,  closely  weave,  your  vermeil  boughs  to-night, 

Fresh-budding  red  woods  —  hide  the  crooked  moon, 
Soft-shining  through  the  sunset,  slim  and  bright 

As  in  some  golden  millet  field  at  noon. 
Might  shine  a  mower's  scythe.     Too  much  of  light 

Rains  through  the  boughs,  too  much  is  in  the  sky, 
To  sort  with  singing  of  untimely  blight, 

And  mourning  all  of  Genius  that  can  die. 


THE   DAUGHTER.=«= 

Alack,  it  is  a  dismal  night  — 

In  gusts  of  thin  and  vapory  light 

Bloweth  the  moonshine  cold  and  white 

Betwixt  the  pauses  of  the  storm. 

That  beats  against,  but  cannot  harm 

The  lady,  whose  chaste  thoughts  do  charm 

Better  than  pious  fast  or  prayer 

The  evil  spells  and  sprites  of  air  — 

In  sooth,  were  she  in  saintly  care 

Safer  she  could  not  be  than  now 

With  truth's  white  crown  upon  her  brow  — 

So  sovereign,  innocence,  art  thou. 

Just  in  the  green  top  of  a  hedge 
That  runs  alolig  a  valley's  edge 
One  star  has  thrust  a  shining  wedge. 
And  all  the  sky  beside  is  drear  — 
It  were  no  cowardice  to  fear 
If  some  belated  traveler  near. 
To  visionary  fancies  born, 
Should  see  upon  the  moor,  forlorn 
With  spiky  thistle  burs  and  thorn, 

♦  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


THE   DAUGHTER.  163 

The  lovely  lady  silent  go, 

Not  on  a  "  palfrey  white  as-  snow," 

But  with  sad  eyes  and  footstep  slow ; 

And  softly  leading  by  the  hand 

An  old  man  who  has  nearly  spanned 

With  his  white  hairs,  life's  latest  sand. 

Hope  in  her  faint  heart  newly  thrills 
As  down  a  barren  reach  of  hills 
Before  her  fly  two  whippoorwills  ; 
But  the  gray  owl  keeps  up  his  wail  — 
His  feathers  ruffled  in  the  gale, 
Drowning  almost  their  dulcet  tale. 

Often  the  harmless  flock  she  sees 
Lying  white  along  the  grassy  leas. 
Like  lily-bells  weighed  down  with  bees. 
Sometimes  the  boatman's  horn  she  hears 
Rousing  from  rest  the  plowman's  steers, 
Lowing  untimely  to  their  peers. 
And  now  and  then  the  moonlight  snake 
Curls  up  its  white  folds,  for  her  sake. 
Closer  within  the  poison  brake. 
But  still  she  keeps  her  lonesome  way, 
Or  if  she  pauses,  't  is  to  say 
Some  word  of  comfort,  else  to  pray. 
For  't  is  a  blustery  night  withal. 
In  spite  of  star  or  moonlight's  fall. 
Or  the  two  whippoorwills'  sweet  call. 
What  doth  the  gentle  lady  here 
Within  a  wood  so  dark  and  drear. 
Nor  hermit's  lodge  nor  castle  near  ? 
See  in  the  distance  robed  and  crowned 
A  prince  with  all  his  chiefs  around. 
And  like  sweet  light  o'er  sombre  ground 
A  meek  and  lovely  lady,  there 
Proffering  her  earnest,  piteous  prayer 
For  an  old  man  with  silver  hair. 

But  what  of  evil  he  hath  done 
O'erclouding  beauty's  April  sun 
I  know  not  —  nor  if  lost  or  won. 


164  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

The  lady's  pleading  sweet  and  low  — 
About  her  pilgrimage  of  woe, 
Is  all  that  I  shall  ever  know. 


ANNIE   CLAYVILLE.* 

In  the  bright'ning  wake  of  April 

Comes  the  lovely,  lovely  May, 
But  the  step  of  Annie  Clayville 

Falleth  fainter  day  by  day. 
In  despite  of  sunshine,  shadows 

Lie  upon  her  heart  and  brow ; 
Last  year  she  was  gay  and  happy  — 

Life  is  nothing  to  her  now  ! 

When  she  hears  the  wild  bird  singing, 
Or  the  sweetly  humming  bee. 

Only  says  she,  faintly  smiling. 
What  have  you  to  do  with  me  ? 

Yet,  sing  out  for  pleasant  weather, 

Wild  birds  in  the  woodland  dells  — 
Fly  out,  little  bees,  and  gather 

Honey  for  your  waxen  wells, 
Softly,  sunlit  rain  of  April, 

Come  down  singing  from  the  clouds, 
Till  the  daffodils  and  daisies 

Shall  be  up  in  golden  crowds ; 
Till  the  wild  pinks  hedge  the  meadows, 

Blushing  out  of  slender  stems, 
And  the  dandelions,  starry, 

Cover  all  the  hills  with  gems. 

From  your  cool  beds  in  the  rivers, 

Blow,  fresh  winds,  and  gladness  bring 

To  the  locks  that  wait  to  hide  you  — 
What  have  I  to  do  v/itli  spring? 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


ANNIE   CLAYVILLE.  165 

May  is  past  —  along  the  hollows 

Chime  the  rills  in  sleepy  tune, 
While  the  harvest's  yellow  chaplet 

Swings  against  the  face  of  June. 

Very  pale  lies  Annie  Clayville  — 

Still  her  forehead,  shadow-crowned, 
And  the  watchers  hear  her  saying, 

As  they  softly  tread  around : 
Go  out,  reapers,  for  the  hill  tops 

Twinkle  with  the  summer's  heat  — 
Lay  from  out  your  swinging  cradles 

Golden  furrows  of  ripe  wheat ! 
While  the  little  laughing  children, 

Lightly  mixing  work  with  play, 
From  between  the  long  green  winrows 

Glean  the  sweetly-scented  hay. 
Let  your  sickles  shine  like  sunbeams 

In  the  silver-flowing  rye. 
Ears  grow  heavy  in  the  cornfields  — 

That  will  claim  you  by  and  by. 
Go  out,  reapers,  with  your  sickles, 

Gather  home  the  harvest  store ! 
Little  gleaners,  laughing  gleaners, 

I  shall  go  with  you  no  more. 

Round  the  red  moon  of  October, 

White  and  cold  the  eve-stars  climb, 
Birds  are  gone,  and  flowers  are  dying  — 

'T  is  a  lonesome,  lonesome  time. 
Yellow  leaves  along  the  woodland 

Surge  to  drifts — the  elm-bough  sways, 
Creaking  at  the  homestead  window 

All  the  weary  nights  and  days. 
Dismally  the  rain  is  falling  — 

Very  dismally  and  cold  ; 
Close,  within  the  village  graveyard 

By  a  heap  of  freshest  mould. 
With  a  simple,  nameless  headstone, 

Lies  a  low  and  narrow  mound. 
And  the  brow  of  Annie  Clayville 

Is  no  lonorer  shadow  crowned. 


166  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Kest  thee,  lost  one,  rest  thee  calmly, 
Glad  to  go  where  pain  is  o'er  — 

Where  they  say  not,  through  the  night-time, 
"  I  am  weary,"  any  more. 


YESTEKNIGHT* 

Yesternight  —  how  long  it  seems!  — 
Met  I  in  the  land  of  dreams, 
One  that  loved  me  long  ago  — 
Better  it  had  not  been  so. 

Eor,  we  met  not  as  of  old  — 
I  was  planting  in  the  mould 
Of  his  grave,  some  flowers  to  be, 
When  he  came  and  talked  with  me. 

White  his  forehead  was,  and  fair, 
With  such  crowns  as  angels  wear, 
And  his  voice  —  but  I  alone 
Ever  heard  so  sweet  a  tone  ! 

All  I  prized  but  yesterday 
In  the  distance  lessening  lay, 
Like  some  golden  cloud  afar. 
Fallen  and  faded  from  a  star. 

Hushed  the  chamber  is,  he  said, 
Hushed  and  dark  where  we  must  wed, 
But  our  bridal  home  is  bright  — 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me  to-night  ? 

Answering  then,  I  sadly  said, 
I  am  living,  thou  art  dead ; 
Darkness  rests  between  us  twain. 
Who  shall  make  the  pathway  plain  ? 

Ah !  thou  lovest  not,  he  cried, 
Else  to  thee  I  had  not  died ; 
Else  all  other  hope  would  be 
As  a  rain-drop  to  the  sea. 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


WINTER.  167 

Farther,  dimmer,  earth  withdrew, 
Lower,  softer  bent  the  blue, 
And  like  bubbles  in  the  wine 
Blent  the  whispers,  I  am  thine. 

Angels  saw  I  to  their  bowers 
Bearing  home  the  sheaves  of  flowers, 
And  could  hear  their  anthem  swells, 
Reaping  in  the  asphodels. 

O'er  my  head  a  wildbird  flew, 
Shaking  in  my  face  the  dew ; 
Underneath  a  woodland  tree, 
I,  my  love,  had  dreamed  of  thee. 


WINTER.* 


Now  sits  the  twilight  palaced  in  the  snow. 
Hugging  away  beneath  a  fleece  of  gold 
Her  statue  beauties,  dumb  and  icy  cold, 

And  fixing  her  blue  steadfast  eyes  below ; 

Where,  in  a  bed  of  chilly  waves  afar, 

With  dismal  shadows  o'er  her  sweet  face  blown. 

Tended  to  death  by  evening's  constant  star, 
Lies  the  lost  Day  alone. 

Where  late,  with  red  mists  thick  about  his  brows, 

Went  the  swart  Autumn,  wading  to  the  knees 
Through  drifts  of  dead  leaves,  shaken  from  the  boughs 

Of  the  old  forest  trees, 
The  gusts  upon  their  baleful  errands  run 

O'er  the  bright  ruin,  fading  from  our  eyes  — 
And.  over  all,  like  clouds  about  the  sun, 

A  shadow  lies. 

For  fallen  asleep  upon  a  dreary  world, 

Slant  to  the  light,  one  late  unsmiling  morn. 

From  some  rough  cavern  blew  a  tempest  cold. 
And  tearing  off  his  garland  of  ripe  corn, 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  i  olume  of  1856. 


168  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Twisted  with  blue  grapes,  sweet  with  luscious  wine, 
And  Ceres'  drowsy  flowers,  so  dully  red, 

Deep  in  his  cavern  leafy  and  divine, 
Buried  him  with  his  dead. 


Then,  with  his  black  beard  glistening  in  the  frost, 

Under  the  icy  arches  of  the  north, 
And  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  seasons  lost. 

Blustered  the  Winter  forth  — 
Spring,  with  your  crown  of  roses  budding  new. 

Thought-nursing  and  most  melancholy  Fall, 
Summer,  with  bloomy  meadows  wet  with  dew. 

Unmindful  of  you  all. 

Oh  heart,  your  spring-time  dream  will  idle  prove, 

Your  summer  but  forerun  your  autumn's  death, 
The  flowery  arches  in  the  home  of  love 

Fall,  crumbling,  at  a  breath ; 
And,  sick  at  last  with  that  great  sorrow's  shock. 

As  some  poor  prisoner,  pressing  to  the  bars 
His  forehead,  calls  on  Mercy  to  unlock 

The  chambers  of  the  stars  — 
You,  turning  off  from  life's  first  mocking  glow 

Leaning,  it  may  be,  still  on  broken  faith. 
Will  down  the  vale  of  Autumn  gladly  go 

To  the  chill  winter.  Death. 

Hark !  from  the  empty  bosom  of  the  woods 
I  hear  a  sob,  as  one  forlorn  might  pine  — 
The  white-limbed  beauty  of  a  god  is  thine. 

King  of  the  season !  even  the  night  that  hoods 

Thy  brow  majestic,  glorifies  thy  reign  — 

Thou  surely  hast  no  pain. 

But  only  far  away 

Makest  stormy  prophecies ;  well,  lift  them  higher, 

Till  morning  on  the  forehead  of  the  day 
Presses  a  seal  of  fire. 

Dearer  to  me  the  scene 

Of  nature  shrinking  from  thy  rough  embrace. 

Than  Summer,  with  her  rustling  robe  of  green. 
Cool  blowing  in  my  face. 


WINTER.  169 

The  moon  is  up  —  how  still  the  yellow  beams 

That  slantwise  lie  upon  the  stirless  air, 
Sprinkled  with  frost,  like  pearl-entangled  hair, 

O'er  beauty's  cheeks  that  streams ! 
How  the  red  light  of  Mars  their  pallor  mocks, 

And  the  wild  legend  from  the  old  time  wins, 
Of  sweet  waves  kissing  all  the  drowning  locks 

Of  Ilia's  lovely  twins  ! 

Come,  Poesy,  and  with  thy  shadowy  hands 

Cover  me  softly,  singing  all  the  night  — 
In  thy  dear  presence  find  I  best  delight ; 

Even  the  saint  that  stands 
Tending  the  gate  of  heaven,  involved  in  beams 

Of  rarest  glory,  to  my  mortal  eyes 
Pales  from  the  blest  insanity  of  dreams 

That  round  thee  lies. 


Unto  the  dusky  borders  of  the  grove 

Where  "  gray-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone,"  * 

Sat  in  his  grief  alone. 
Or,  where  young  Venus,  searching  for  her  love, 

Walked  through  the  clouds,  I  pray, 

Bear  me  to-night  away. 

Or  wade  with  me  through  snows 

Drifted  in  loose  fantastic  curves  aside 

From  humble  doors  where  Love  and  Faith  abide. 
And  no  rough  winter  blows, 

Chilling  the  beauty  of  affections  fair. 

Cabined  securely  there,  — 
Where  round  their  fingers  winding  the  white  slips 

That  crown  his  forehead,  on  the  grandsire's  knees, 
Sit  merry  children,  teasing  about  ships 

Lost  in  the  perilous  seas ; 
Or  listening  with  a  tremulous  joy,  yet  deep, 

To  stories  about  battles,  or  of  storms, 
Till  weary  grown,  and  drowsing  into  sleep. 

Slide  they  from  out  his  arms. 

*  From  Keats's  "  Hyperion."    In  "  Lyra,"  where  the  poem  appeared  in  1852,  the 
phrase  was  given  without  quotation  points,  and  with  '•  silent  "  for  "  quiet." 


170  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

Where,  by  the  log-heap  fire, 

As  the  pane  rattles  and  the  cricket  sings, 
I  with  the  gray-haired  sire 

May  talk  of  vanished  summer-times  and  springs, 
And  harmlessly  and  cheerfully  beguile 

The  long,  long  hours  — 
The  happier  for  the  snows  that  drift  the  while 

About  the  flowers. 

Winter,  will  keep  the  love  I  offer  thee  ? 

No  mesh  of  flowers  is  bound  about  my  brow ; 
From  life's  fair  summer  I  am  hastening  now. 

And  as  I  sink  my  knee. 
Dimpling  the  beauty  of  thy  bed  of  snow  — 

Dowerless,  I  can  but  say  — 

Oh,  cast  me  not  away ! 


WOOD   NYMPHS.* 

Wood  nymphs,  that  do  hereabouts 
Dwell,  and  hold  your  pleasant  routs, 
When  beneath  her  cloak  so  white, 
Holding  close  the  black-eyed  Night, 
Twilight,  sweetly  voluble. 
Acquaints  herself  with  shadows  dull ; 
While  above  your  rustic  camp, 
Hesperus,  his  pallid  lamp 
For  the  coming  darkness  trims. 
From  the  gnarled  bark  of  limbs 
Rough  and  crabbed  —  slide  to  view  ! 
I  have  work  for  you  to  do. 

To  this  neighborhood  of  shade 
Came  I,  the  most  woful  maid 
That  did  ever  comfort  glean 
From  the  songs  of  birds,  I  ween ; 
Or  from  rills  through  hollow  meads. 
Washing  over  beds  of  reeds, 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


WOOD   NYMPHS.  171 

When,  to  vex  with  more  annoy, 
Found  I  here  this  sleeping  boy. 

I  must  learn  some  harmless  art, 

That  will  bind  to  mine  his  heart. 

Never  creature  of  the  air 

Saw  I  in  a  dream  so  fair. 

Wood  nymphs,  lend  your  charmed  aid  — 

Underneath  the  checkered  shade 

Of  each  tangled  bough  that  stirs 

To  the  wind,  in  shape  of  burs, 

Kough  and  prickly,  or  sharp  thorn  — 

Whence  the  tame  ewe,  newly  shorn. 

Stained  with  crimson,  hurries  oft, 

Bleating  toward  the  distant  croft  — 

Dew  of  potency  is  found 

That  would  leave  my  forehead  crowned 

With  the  very  chrisms  of  joy  — 

The  sweet  kisses  of  this  boy. 

These  quaint  uses  jon  must  know  — 

Poets  wise  have  writ  it  so. 

When  the  charm  so  deftly  planned 
Shall  be  wrought,  I  have  in  hand. 
Work  your  nimble  crew  to  please, 
Mixed  along  of  sweetnesses. 
This  it  is  to  bring  to  me 
Fairest  of  all  flowers  that  be  — 
Oxlips  red,  and  columbines. 
Ivies,  with  blue  flowering  twines, 
Flags  that  grow  by  shallow  springs. 
Purple,  prankt  with  yellow  rings ; 
Slim  ferns,  bound  in  golden  sheaves ; 
Mandrakes,  with  the  notched  leaves ; 
Pink  and  crowbind,  nor  o'erpass 
The  white  daisies  in  the  grass. 
Of  the  daintiest  that  you  pull, 
I  will  tie  a  garland  full, 
And  upon  this  oaken  bough 
Drooping  coolest  shadows  now. 
Hang  it  'gainst  his  face  to  swing, 
Till  he  wakes  from  slumbering; 


172  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Evermore  to  live  and  love 
In  this  dim  consenting  grove. 

Shaggy  beasts  with  hungry  eyes  — 
Ugly,  spotted,  dragonflies  — 
Limber  snakes  drawn  up  to  rings, 
And  the  thousand  hateful  things 
That  are  bred  in  forests  drear, 
Never  shall  disturb  us  here ; 
Por  my  love  and  I  will  see 
Only  the  sweet  company 
Of  the  nymphs  that  round  me  glide 
With  the  shades  of  eventide. 

Crow  of  cock,  nor  belfry  chime, 
Shall  we  need  to  count  the  time  — 
Tuneful  footfalls  in  the  flowers 
Ringing  out  and  in  the  hours. 


OCTOBER.* 


Not  the  light  of  the  long  blue  Summer, 

Nor  the  flowery  huntress.  Spring, 
Nor  the  chilly  and  moaning  Winter, 

Doth  peace  to  my  bosom  bring, 
Like  the  hazy  and  red  October, 

When  the  woods  stand  bare  and  brown, 
And  into  the  lap  of  the  south  land, 

The  flowers  are  blowing  down ; 
When  all  night  long,  in  the  moonlight, 

The  boughs  of  the  roof-tree  chafe, 
And  the  wind,  like  a  wandering  poet, 

Is  singing  a  mournful  waif ; 
And  all  day  through  the  cloud-armies. 

The  sunbeams  like  sentinels  move  — 
Eor  then  in  my  path  first  unfolded 

The  sweet  passion-flowers  of  love. 

With  bosom  as  pale  as  the  sea-shell, 
And  soft  as  the  flax  unspun, 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


THE  NEW   YEAR.  173 

And  locks  like  the  nut-brown  shadows 

In  the  light  of  the  sunken  sun, 
Came  the  maiden  whose  wonderful  beauty 

Enchanted  my  soul  from  pain, 
And  gladdened  my  heart,  that  can  never, 

No,  never  be  happy  again. 
Away  from  life's  pain  and  passion, 

Away  from  the  cares  that  blight, 
She  went  like  a  star  that  softly 

Goes  out  from  the  tent  of  night. 
But  oft,  when  the  fields  of  the  Autumn 

Are  warm  with  the  summer  beams, 
We  meet  in  the  mystic  shadows 

That  border  the  land  of  dreams. 
For  seeing  my  woe  through  the  splendor 

That  hovers  about  her  above. 
She  puts  from  her  forehead  the  glory, 

And  listens  again  to  my  love. 


THE   NEW  YEAK. 

Like  the  cry  of  Despair,  where  the  war-weapons  rattle, 
Or  the  moan  of  a  god  in  some  mythical  battle. 
Rung  out  o'er  the  senses  of  pain  and  of  swouning 
Above  the  death  woe  of  immortal  discrowning. 
There  came  yesternight  in  the  midst  of  my  dreaming 
A  wail,  waking  visions  of  terrible  seeming. 

The  fires  of  the  sunset  had  burnt  from  the  shadows 
Their  leashes,  and  slipt,  they  ran  over  the  meadows. 
Deepening  up  from  the  dulness  and  grayness  of  ashes 
To  the  hue  of  that  deep  wave  the  night-time  that  washes. 
Where  sorrow's  black  tresses  are  gathered  up  never. 
But  sweep  o'er  the  red  pillows  ever  and  ever. 

Thus  startled  from  slumber,  I  fearfully  listened : 
The  frost  had  been  busy,  and  phantom-shapes  glistened. 
Along  the  cold  pane  where  the  dead  bough  was  creaking, 
When,  close  in  my  chamber,  I  heard  a  low  speaking ; 
And  I  said,  "  Wherefore  com  est  thou,  mystical  spirit  ? 
Have  I  evil  or  good  at  thy  hands  to  inherit  ?  " 


174  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Like  a  rose-vine  entwining  some  ruinous  column, 

The  sweet  and  the  lovely  were  over  the  solemn^ 

As  fell  through  the  silence  this  cadence,  replying ; 

"  Watch  with  me,  oh  mortal,  watch  with  me,  I  'm  dying !  " 

And  I  answered,  "  I  will,  by  the  blessed  evangel !  " 

Unknowing  my  guest  whether  demon  or  angel. 

It  seems,  as  I  sat  with  the  sad  darkness  holding 
Communion,  I  almost  could  hear  the  shroud  folding 
About  the  still  bosom  and  smoothly  wound  tresses 
That  love  might  imprison  no  more  with  caresses  — 
The  half  smothered  sobs,  and  the  orphan-like  calling. 
With  passionate  kisses  the  dust  over  falling. 

"  Art  thou  dead  ?  "  I  said,  "  thus  doth  my  watch  have  its 

ending  ? 
And  needest  thou  not  any  more  my  befriending  ?" 
"  Nay,  not  dead,  but  fallen,  and  mortally  wounded," 
The  death-subdued  accent  along  the  dark  sounded  — 
"  Claimest  thou  of  me  largess  ?  "     "  Yes,"  said  I,  "  thy 

story. 
So  number  me  swiftly  the  days  of  thy  glory." 

Along  the  wild  moorland  the  wind  whistled  dreary, 

And  low  as  a  death-watch  my  heart  beat  a-weary, 

As  like  one  beside  the  hushed  portal  of  Aiden, 

Awaiting  the  accent  to  soothe  or  to  sadden, 

I  sat  in  expectancy,  charmed  and  holy. 

Till  thus  spake  the  spirit,  serenely  and  slowly : 

'^  On  a  bed  of  dead  leaves  and  a  snow-pillow  lying. 
The  winds  stooping  round  him,  and  sorrowful  crying, 
His  beard  full  of  ice,  his  hands  folded  from  reaping. 
My  sire,  when  I  woke  into  life,  lay  a-sleeping, 
And  so  of  my  brief  reign  was  given  the  warning, 
Ere  yet  I  beheld  the  sweet  eyes  of  the  morning. 

'Blow  winds  of  the  wilderness,'  cried  T,  ' and  cover 
With  dim  dust  the  pallid  corpse  under  and  over. 
For  through  the  bright  gates  of  the  orient,  sweeping, 
The  heralds  of  day  come  —  I  would  not  be  weeping; ' 
And  putting  away  from  my  lip  sorrow's  chalice, 
I  left  him  beside  the  blue  wall  of  my  palace. 


THE   NEW    YEAR.  175 

So,  a  twelvemonth  agone,  with  my  young  wing  expanded, 
On  the  shores  of  my  kingdom,  a  monarch  I  landed ; 
Star-lamps  were  aglow  in  the  cloudy-lined  arches, 
As  I  sent  the  first  embassy  hours  on  their  marches ; 
And  day,  softly  wrapped  in  a  fleece  that  was  golden. 
Came  up  when  my  council  with  light  first  was  holden. 

The  silvery  rings  of  two  moons  had  their  filling, 

When  the  north  drew  his  breath  in  so  bitterly  chilling, 

And  clad  in  a  robe  of  red  hunter-like  splendor. 

On  a  hollow  reed  piping  a  madrigal  tender, 

Through  meadow  and    orchard,   came    March,    his    loud 

laughter. 
Half  drowned  in  the  whine  of  the  winds,  crouching  after. 

Next  came  from  the  south  land,  one,  fair  as  a  maiden, 
Her  lap  with  fresh   buds   and   green    sprouting   leaves 

laden ; 
Her  slight  dewy  fingers  with  daffodils  crowded, 
Her  lip  ever  smiling,  her  brow  ever  clouded ; 
But  the  birds  on  her  flowery  wake  that  came  flying, 
Beside  a  thick  blossoming  hedge,  found  her  dying. 

Blown,  like  a  silvery  cloud  o'er  the  edges 
Of  morning,  the  elder-blooms  swayed  in  the  hedges, 
The  quail  whistled  out  in  the  stubble,  and  over 
The  meadow  the  bee  went  in  search  of  the  clover ; 
When  came,  with  a  train  of  delights  for  her  warders, 
The  dewy-eyed  May,  up  the  green  river  borders. 

Bright  ridges  of  bees  round  the  full  hive  were  humming, 
Away  in  the  thick  woods  the  partridge  was  drumming ; 
The  rush  of  the  sickle,  the  scythe-stroke  serener. 
Were  pleasantly  mixed  with  the  song  of  the  gleaner. 
When  under  the  shadows  of  full-blowing  roses 
The  days  of  the  virginal  June  had  their  closes. 

When  oxen  unyoked  laid  their  foreheads  together, 
And  berries  were  ripe  for  the  school-boys  to  gather ; 
When  sultry  heats  over  the  hill-tops  were  winking, 
And  down  in  the  hollows  the  streamlets  were  shrinking; 
When  birds  hushed  their  musical  glee  to  a  twitter, 
Came  July,  with  a  mist  of  gold  over  her  litter. 


176  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

Like   the  slim  crescent   moon   through  an  amber-cloud 

shining 
Above  the  brown  woods  when  the  day  is  declining, 
Among  the  ripe  wheat-shocks  the  sickle  was  glowing, 
And  over  the  summer  dark  shadows  went  blowing, 
When,  crowned  with  the  oat-flowers,  heavy  and  yellow. 
Came  August,  her  cheek  with  the  summer's  sun  sallow. 

About  the  next  comer  deep  calmness  was  lying, 
And  yet  from  her  presence  the  wild  birds  went  flying, 
As  out  of  the  orchards  and  grape-woven  bowers. 
She  gathered  the  fruit  with  no  sigh  for  the  flowers, 
And  shook  down  the  nuts  on  the  withering  mosses, 
Unmindful  of  all  the  bright  summer-time  losses. 

When  harvesters  home  from  the  cornfield  were  bringing 
The  baskets  of  ripe  ears,  with  laughter  and  singing. 
What  time  his  past  labor  the  husbandman  blesses 
In  cups  of  sweet  cider,  just  oozed  from  the  presses. 
Beneath  the  broad  forest  boughs,  saddened  in  seeming, 
And  hooded  with  red  leaves,  October  sat  dreaming. 

Winds  for  the  dead  flowers  mournfully  searching. 
Tall  phantoms  that  out  of  the  darkness  came  marching. 
Clouds,  full  of  blackness  and  storms,  fleetly  flying, 
Or  on  the  bleak  edges  of  winter-time  lying. 
Quenching  with  chilly  rain  Autumn's  last  splendor  — 
These  were  the  handmaids  that  came  with  November. 

Making  the  gentle  kine,  sorrowful  lowing. 
Turn  from  the  tempest  so  bitterly  blowing  — 
Kow  lying  on  slopes,  to  the  southern  light  slanted. 
Now  filling  the  woods  with  hymns  mournfully  chanted, 
I  saw  —  my  steps  weakly  beginning  to  falter  — 
The  last  Season  lay  his  white  gift  on  the  altar. 

Then  I  knew  by  the  chill  through  my  bosom  slow  stealing. 

And  the  pang  at  my  heart,  that  my  dark  doom  was  sealing, 

And  seeing  before  me  the  ever-hushed  portal, 

I  sought  to  reveal  to  some  pitying  mortal. 

The  while  from  my  vision  the  life-light  was  waning 

The  gladness  and  grief  of  my  bright  and  brief  reigning. 


IN  THE   SUGAR   CAMP,  177 

Ah,  many  a  poet  I  had  whose  sweet  idyls 
Made  vocal  the  chambers  of  births  and  of  bridals, 
And  many  a  priest,  too,  both  shaved  and  unshaven, 
To  hide  in  the  meal  of  the  world  the  Word's  leaven ; 
But  still  at  the  church  and  the  merry  mirth-making, 
With  the  good  and  the  gay  there  were  hearts  that  were 
breaking. 

Deeds  darker  than  night  and  words  sharper  than  daggers 

Have  peopled  my  wilderness  places  with  Hagars, 

The  wayfaring  man  has  been  often  benighted. 

Where  never  a  taper  for  guidance  was  lighted, 

But  over  the  desolate  cloud  and  the  scorning 

Has  risen  the  gladness  that  comes  with  the  morning. 

On  the  white  cheek  of  beauty  the  blushes  have  trembled, 
Betraying  the  heart  that  would  else  have  dissembled. 
When  the  eloquent  whisper  of  young  Love  was  spoken ; 
But  oh,  when  the  burial  sod  has  been  broken 
For  dear  ones,  with  hands  folded  close  for  the  sleeping. 
The  nights  have  been  dismal  with  comfortless  weeping. 

Thus,  mortal,  I  give  to  your  keeping  this  story 
Of  transient  dominion  —  its  sadness  and  glory, 
And  while  my  last  accents  are  mournfully  spoken. 
The  sceptre  I  swayed,  in  my  weak  hand  is  broken, 
And  darkness  unending  my  gray  hair  is  hooding. 
And  over,  and  round  me,  the  midnight  is  brooding.'' 

The  silence  fell  heavy :  my  watching  was  over. 
The  old  year  was  dead,  and  though  many  a  lover 
He  had  in  his  lifetime,  not  one  would  there  tarry 
To  mourn  at  his  death-bed  —  for  all  must  make  merry 
About  the  young  monarch,  some  grace  to  be  winning, 
With  welcome  or  gift,  while  his  reign  was  beginning. 


IX   THE    SUGAR   CAMP. 

Upon  the  silver  beeches  moss 
Was  drawing  quaint  designs. 

And  the  first  dim-eyed  violets 
Were  greeting  the  March  winds. 


178  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

'T  was  night  —  the  fire  of  hickory  wood 
Burned  warm,  and  bright,  and  high  — 

And  we  were  in  tlie  Sugar  Camp, 
Sweet  Nelly  Grey  and  I. 

'T  was  merry,  though  the  willows  yet 

Had  not  a  tassel  on  ; 
The  blue  birds  sung  that  year,  I  know 

Before  the  snow  was  gone. 
Through  bunches  of  stiff,  frosty  grass 

The  brooks  went  tinkling  by ; 
We  heard  them  in  the  Sugar  Camp, 

Sweet  Nelly  Grey  and  I. 

Broken  and  thin  the  shadows  lay 

Along  the  moonlit  hill, 
For  like  the  wings  of  chrysalids 

The  leaves  were  folded  still. 
And  so,  betwixt  the  times  we  heaped 

The  hickory  wood  so  high. 
When  we  were  in  the  Sugar  Camp, 

Sweet  Nelly  Grey  and  I. 

I  said  I  loved  her  —  said  I  'd  make 

A  cabin  by  the  stream, 
And  we  would  live  among  the  birds  — 

It  was  a  pretty  dream  ! 
I  could  not  see  the  next  year's  snow 

Upon  her  bosom  lie  — 
When  we  were  in  the  Sugar  Camp, 

Sweet  Nelly  Grey  and  I. 


EHYME  OF  MY  PLAYMATE. 

Alas  !  his  praise  I  cannot  write, 
Nor  paint  him  true  for  other  eyes ; 

For  only  in  love's  blessed  light 

Could  you  have  known  him  good  or  wise. 

Beside  him  from  my  birth  I  grew. 
E'en  to  the  middle  time  of  youth. 


RHYME    OF  MY  PLAYMATE.  179 

And  never  was  there  heart  so  true, 
Though  shy  of  all  the  shows  of  truth. 

Silent  he  often  sat,  and  sad, 

While  on  his  lips  there  played  a  smile, 

Which  told  you  that  his  spirit  had 
Some  lovely  vision  all  the  while. 

Like  flowers  that  drop  in  hidden  streams, 
Low  under  shelving  weights  of  ground. 

His  thoughts  went  drooping  into  dreams 
Though  never  trembling  into  sound. 

The  common  fields,  the  darkening  woods. 

The  silver  runnels  and  blue  skies. 
He  mused  of  in  his  solitudes 

And  gazed  on  with  a  lover's  eyes. 

The  hollow  where  we  used  to  stray, 

Gathering  the  rush  with  purple  joints  — 

Till  from  the  haycocks  thick  and  gray, 
The  shadows  stretched  in  dusky  points. 

And  homeward  with  their  glittering  scythes 
The  mowers  came,  and  paused  to  say 

Some  playful  reprimand  (the  tithes 
Of  our  thus  idling  all  the  day)  —  * 

Lay  green  beneath  the  crimson  swaths 

Of  sunset,  when  I  thither  came, 
And  the  thick  wings  of  twilight  moths 

Flitted  in  circles  all  the  same. 

And  the  brown  beetle  hummed  upon 

The  furrow  as  the  day  grew  dim, 
As,  when  in  sunset  lights  long  gone, 

I  trod  the  meadow-side  with  him. 

The  swallow  round  the  gable  led 

Her  fledgling  brood,  but  far  and  near, 

O'er  wood  and  wold  there  seemed  to  spread 
A  dry  and  dreary  atmosphere. 

*  Between  this  stanza  and  the  next  some  Unes  have  apparently  fallen  out. 


180  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Unpraised  but  in  my  simple  rhymes, 
With  sullen  brow  and  footsteps  slow, 

Along  the  wilds  of  burning  climes 
Alone,  unloved,  I  saw  him  go. 

No  heart  but  mine  his  memory  keeps  — 
The  world  will  never  hear  his  name, 

Dreamless  he  lingers  by  the  steeps 

Whereon  he  might  have  climbed  to  fame. 


THE  COMING  OF  NIGHT. 

As  white  as  the  moonlight  that  fell  at  her  feet 
She  stood,  but  for  blushes,  as  many  and  sweet 
As  the  tops  of  the  blossoms  that  grew  in  the  wheat. 

And  softly  caressed  me  — 
Her  eyes  on  the  light  of  the  valley  hard  by ; 
I  rose  for  the  bidding,  and  kissed  back  the  sigh 
And  the  speaking  to  silence,  that  said  "  I  would  die 

Where  the  love-story  blessed  me  !  " 

The  wind  sung  her  lullabies  out  of  the  trees 

With  starlights  betwixt  them  —  her  head  on  my  knees, 

She  said  to  me  only  such  sad  words  as  these  — 

"Farewell,  I  am  going." 
And  so  fell  the  watches,  and  so  on  the  night. 
Came  wider  and  wider  the  daybreak  so  white, 
Till  shadows  of  flying  larks  went  through  the  light 

Where  the  shroud  must  be  sewing. 

I  felt  on  my  bosom  the  burden  grow  cold. 

And  holding  her  closer,  said,  "  Sweet  one,  behold, 

The  sunrise  is  turning  the  woodside  to  gold. 

And  birds  go  up  singing !  " 
She  smiled  not,  and  knowing  my  terrible  loss, 
I  made  her  a  pillow  of  loveliest  moss. 
And  laid  her  down  gently  —  her  white  hands  across, 

While  mine  fell  a  wringing. 


FIRE  PICTURES.  181 

I  gathered  her  black  tresses  up  from  the  ground, 
Away  from  her  forehead  their  beauty  I  wound 
And  when  with  fair  pansies  and  roses  I  bound 

Their  dim  lengths  from  straying, 
And  smoothed  out  her  garment  so  soft  and  so  white, 
Lying  there  in  the  shadows  of  morning  and  night. 
She  looked  like  a  bride  gone  asleep  in  the  light 

Of  the  sweet  altar-praying. 

I  knelt  to  the  white  ones  who  live  in  the  blue, 

And  told  them  how  good  she  had  been  and  how  true, 

And  then  there  was  nothing  more  that  I  could  do, 

The  need  was  all  over  — 
Low  down  in  a  valley  of  quietest  shade 
With  blossoms  strewed  over  the  shroud  which  I  made 
On  a  bed  very  narrow  and  still  she  is  laid, 

To  sleep  by  her  lover. 


PIRE  PICTURES  * 

Ix  the  embers  all  aglow, 

Fancy  makes  the  pictures  plain. 

As  I  listen  to  the  snow 

Beating  chill  against  the  pane  — 

The  wild  December  snow 
On  the  lamp-illumined  pane. 

Bent  downward  from  his  prime, 
Like  the  ripe  fruit  from  its  bough, 

As  I  muse  my  simple  rhyme 
I  can  see  my  father  now, 

With  the  warning  flowers  of  time 
Blooming  white  about  his  brow. 

Sadly  flows  the  willow  tree 
On  the  hill  so  dear,  yet  dread. 

Where  the  resting  places  be, 

Of  our  dear  ones  that  are  dead  — 

Where  the  mossy  headstones  be, 
Of  my  early  playmates  dead. 

*  This  poem  is  gnven  here  as  it  appeared  in  "  Lyra."    When  reprinted  in   the 
volume  of  1855  the  fifth  stanza  was  dropped. 


182  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

But  despite  the  dismal  snow, 
Blinding  all  the  window  o'er, 

And  the  wind,  that,  crouching  low, 
Whines  against  my  study  door, 

In  the  embers'  twilight  glow 
I  can  see  one  picture  more. 

Down  the  beechen-shaded  hills. 
With  the  summer  lambs  at  play. 

Run  the  violet-nursing  rills 

Through  the  meadows  sweet  with  hay, 

Where  the  gray-winged  plover  trills 
Of  its  joy  the  live-long  day  — 

Seeming  almost  within  call, 

Neath  our  ancient  trysting  tree, 

Art  thou  pictured,  source  of  all 
That  was  ever  dear  to  me ; 

But  the  wasted  embers  fall, 
And  the  night  is  all  I  see  — 

The  night  with  gusts  of  snow 
Blowing  wild  against  the  pane, 

And  the  wind  that  crouches  low, 
Crying  mournfully  in  vain. 

And  the  dreams  that  come  and  go 
Through  my  memory-haunted  brain. 


THE   WOOD   LILY. 

Betwixt  the  green  rows  of  the  corn, 
Ne'er  grew  a  wild  blossom  so  sweet  — 

Her  mother's  low  cabin  was  gay 

With  the  music  that  followed  her  feet 


Combing  now  the  white  lengths  of  the  wool 
With  hands  that  were  whiter  than  they ; 

Spinning  now  in  the  mossy-roofed  porch 
Till  the  time  when  the  birds  go  away. 


TO    THE   SPIRIT  OF  SONG.  183 

Her  hair  was  as  black  as  the  storm  ; 

No  maiden  in  all  the  green  glen 
Was  so  pretty,  so  praised,  or  so  loved: 

We  called  her  the  Wood  Lily,  then. 

The  church  wall,  so  gray  and  so  cold. 

Is  streaked  with  the  vines  which  she  set, 

And  her  roses  beside  the  arched  door, 
In  summer  half  smother  it  yet. 

And  often  with  pitiful  looks 

They  pause,  who  put  by  the  lithe  shoots, 
As  if  something  said,  "  It  were  well, 

If  Lily  lay  down  at  the  roots.'' 

Dull  spiders  reel  up  their  white  skeins 

On  the  wheel  where  she  comes  not  to  spin. 

And  her  hands  have  pulled  all  the  bright  flowers 
From  the  locks  that  are  faded  and  thin. 

And  if  you  go  near  to  the  door. 

You  will  choke  with  the  coming  of  sighs, 

For  by  the  dark  hearth-stone  she  sits 
All  the  day,  singing  low  lullabies, 

So  low,  they  may  scarcely  be  heard, 

While  the  smile  of  her  lip  and  her  brow, 

Like  sunbeams  have  gone  under  clouds  — 
And  this  is  our  Wood  Lily,  now. 


TO   THE   SPIRIT   OF    SONG.* 

Come,  sweet  spirit,  come,  I  pray. 
Thou  hast  been  too  long  away ; 
Come,  and  in  the  dreamland  light, 
Keep  with  me  a  tryst  to-night. 

AVhen  the  reapers  once  at  morn 
Bound  the  golden  stocks  of  corn. 
Shadowy  hands,  that  none  could  see, 
Gleaned  along  the  field  with  me. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


184  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Come,  and  with  thy  wings  so  white 
Hide  me  from  a  wicked  sprite, 
That  has  vexed  me  with  a  sign 
Which  I  tremble  to  divine. 

At  a  black  loom  sisters  three 
Saw  I  weaving  ;  Can  it  be, 
Thought  I,  as  I  saw  them  crowd 
The  white  shuttles,  't  is  a  shroud  ? 

Silently  the  loom  they  left, 
Taking  mingled  warp  and  weft, 
And,  as  wild  ray  bosom  beat, 
Measured  me  from  head  to  feet. 

Liest  thou  in  the  drowning  brine. 
Sweetest,  gentlest  love  of  mine, 
Tangled  softly  from  my  prayer. 
By  some  Nereid's  shining  hair  ? 

Or,  when  mortal  hope  withdrew. 
Didst  thou,  faithless,  leave  me  too, 
Blowing  on  thy  lovely  reed, 
Careless  how  my  heart  should  bleed? 

By  this  sudden  chill  I  know 
That  it  is,  it  must  be  so  — 
Sprite  of  darkness,  sisters  three, 
Lo,  I  wait  your  ministry. 


A   CHEISTMAS   STORY.* 

'T  IS  Christmas  Eve,  and  by  the  firelight  dim, 
His  blue  eyes  hidden  by  his  fallen  hair, 

My  little  brother  —  mirth  is  not  for  him  — 
Whispers,  how  poor  we  are ! 

Come,  dear  one,  rest  upon  my  knee  your  head, 
And  push  away  those  curls  of  golden  glow, 

And  I  will  tell  a  Christmas  tale  I  read 
A  long,  long  time  ago. 

*  Printed  in  *'  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


.       A    CHRISTMAS  STORY.  185 

'T  is  of  a  little  orphan  boy  like  you, 

Who  had  on  earth  no  friend  his  feet  to  guide 

Into  the  path  of  virtue,  straight  and  true, 
And  so  he  turned  aside. 

The  parlor  fires,  with  genial  warmth  aglow, 
Threw  over  him  their  waves  of  mocking  light, 

Once  as  he  idly  wandered  to  and  fro, 
In  the  unfriendly  night. 

The  while  a  thousand  little  girls  and  boys, 

With  look  of  pride,  or  half-averted  eye. 
Their  hands  and  arms  o'erbrimmed  with  Christmas  toys, 

Passed  and  repassed  him  by. 

Chilled  into  half-forgetf nines s  of  wrong. 
And  tempted  by  the  spleiidors  of  the  time, 

And  roughly  jostled  by  the  hurrying  throng, 
Trembling,  he  talked  with  crime. 

And  when  the  Tempter  once  had  found  the  way, 

And  thought's  still  threshold,  half-forbidden,  crossed, 

His  steps  went  darkly  downward  day  by  day. 
Till  he  at  last  was  lost. 

So  lost,  that  once  from  a  delirious  dream, 

As  consciousness  began  his  soul  to  stir. 
Around  him  fell  the  morning's  checkered  beam  — 

He  was  a  prisoner. 

Then  wailed  he  in  the  frenzy  of  wild  pain, 

Then  wept  he  till  his  eyes  with  tears  were  dim. 

But  who  would  kindly  answer  back  again 
A  prisoner-boy  like  him  ? 

And  so  his  cheek  grew  thin  and  paled  away. 
But  not  a  loving  hand  was  stretched  to  save; 

And  the  snow  covered  the  next  Christmas-day 
His  lonesome  little  grave. 

Nay,  gentle  brother,  do  not  weep,  I  pray, 
You  have  no  sins  like  his  to  be  forgiven. 


186  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY.    . 

And  kneeling  down  together,  we  can  say, 
Father,  who  art  in  Heaven. 

So  shall  the  blessed  presence  of  content 
Brighten  our  home  of  toil  and  poverty, 

And  the  dear  consciousness  of  time  well  spent, 
Our  Christmas  portion  be. 


THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE. 

The  winds  of  March  are  piping  shrill, 

The  half-moon,  slanting  low. 
Is  shining  down  the  wild  sea-hill 

Where,  long  and  long  ago, 
Love  ditties  singing  all  for  me. 

Sat  blue-eyed  Coralin  — 
Her  grave  is  now  beneath  the  tree 

Where  then  she  used  to  spin. 

Three  walnut  trees,  so  high  and  wild, 

Before  the  homestead  stand  — 
Their  smooth  boles  often,  when  a  child, 
.    I  've  taken  in  my  hand ; 
And  that  the  nearest  to  the  wall. 

Though  once  alike  they  grew. 
Is  not  so  goodly,  nor  so  tall. 

As  are  the  other  two. 

The  spinning  work  was  always  there  — 

There  all  our  childish  glee. 
But  when  she  grew  a  maiden  fair, 

The  songs  were  not  for  me. 
One  night,  twice  seven  years  't  has  been, 

When  shone  the  moon  as  now. 
The  slender  form  of  Coralin 

Hung  swinging  on  the  bough 

That's  gnarled  and  knotty  grown;  in  spring 

When  all  the  fields  are  gay 
With  madrigals,  no  bird  will  sing 

Upon  that  bough,  they  say. 


THE  MURDERESS.  187 

And  through  the  chamber  where  the  wheel 

With  cobwebs  is  o'erspread, 
Pale  ghosts  are  sometimes  seeu  to  steal, 

Since  Coralin  is  dead. 

The  waters  once  so  bright  and  cool, 

Within  the  mossy  well, 
Are  shrunken  to  a  sluggish  pool ; 

And  more  than  this,  they  tell, 
That  oft  the  one-eyed  mastiff  wakes, 

And  howls  as  if  in  fear, 
From  midnight  till  the  morning  breaks  — 

The  dead  is  then  too  near. 


here. 


THE   MURDERESS.* 

Aloxg  the  still  cold  plain  o'erhead, 

In  pale  embattled  crowds. 
The  stars  their  tents  of  darkness  spread, 

And  camped  among  the  clouds; 
Cinctured  with  shadows,  like  a  wraith, 

Night  moaned  along  the  lea; 
Like  the  blue  hungry  eye  of  Death, 

Shone  the  perfidious  sea ; 
The  moon  was  wearing  to  the  wane. 

The  winds  were  wild  and  high, 
And  a  red  meteor's  flaming  mane 

Streamed  from  the  northern  sky. 

Across  the  black  and  barren  moor, 

Her  dainty  bosom  bare ; 
And  white  lips  sobbing  evermore. 

Rides  Eleanor  the  fair. 
So  hath  the  pining  sea-maid  plained 

For  love  of  mortal  lips, 
Riding  the  billows,  silver-reined. 

Hard  by  disastrous  ships. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra  "  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1S55.    The  revision  is  given 
•e.  ; 


188  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Why  covers  she  her  mournful  eyes  ? 

Why  do  her  pulses  cease, 
As  if  she  saw  before  her  rise 

The  ghost  of  murdered  Peace  ? 
From  out  her  path  the  ground-bird  drifts 

With  wildly  startled  calls, 
The  moonlight  snake  its  white  fold  lifts 

From  where  her  shadow  falls. 

Ah  me !  that  delicate  hand  of  hers, 

Now  trembling  like  a  reed, 
Like  to  the  ancient  mariner's 

Hath  done  a  hellish  deed ; 
And  full  of  mercy  were  the  frown 

Which  might  the  power  impart 
To  press  the  eternal  darkness  down 

Against  her  bleeding  heart. 


CONTENT. 


My  house  is  low  and  small, 

But  behind  a  row  of  trees, 
I  catch  the  golden  fall 

Of  the  sunset  in  the  seas ; 
And  a  stone  wall  hanging  white 

With  the  roses  of  the  May, 
Were  less  pleasant  to  my  sight 

Than  the  fading  of  to-day. 
From  a  brook  a  heifer  drinks 

In  a  field  of  pasture  ground. 
With  wild  violets  and  pinks 

For  a  border  all  around. 

My  house  is  small  and  low. 

But  the  willow  by  the  door 
Doth  a  cool  deep  shadow  throw 

In  the  summer  on  my  floor ; 
And  in  long  and  rainy  nights 

When  the  limbs  of  leaves  are  bare, 
I  can  see  the  window  lights 

Of  the  homesteads  otherwhere. 


OF  ONE  ASLEEP.  189 

My  house  is  small  and  low, 

But  with  pictures  such  as  these 
Of  the  sunset  and  the  row 

Of  illuminated  trees, 
And  the  heifer  as  she  drinks 

From  the  field  of  meadowed  ground, 
With  the  violets  and  pinks 

For  a  border  all  around, 
Let  me  never,  foolish,  pray 

For  a  vision  wider  spread. 
But  contented,  only  say. 

Give  me,  Lord,  my  daily  bread. 


OF   ONE   ASLEEP.* 

Once  when  we  lingered,  sorrow-proof, 

My  gentle  love  and  me^ 
Beneath  a  green  and  pleasant  roof. 

Of  oak  leaves  by  the  sea, 
Like  yellow  violets,  springing  bright 

From  furrows  newly  turned. 
Among  the  nut-brown  clouds  the  light 

Of  sunset  softly  burned. 
Then  veiling  close  her  pensive  face 

In  clouds  of  transient  flame, 
The  silent  child  of  the  embrace 

Of  light  and  darkness  came : 
We  saw  her  closing  now  the  flower 

And  warning  home  the  bee, 
Now  painting  with  a  godlike  power 

The  arteries  of  the  sea ; 
And  heard  the  wind  beneath  night's  frown 

Displacing  quick  her  smile. 
Laughingly  running  up  and  down 

The  green  hills  all  the  while ; 
Love  to  our  hearts  had  newly  brought 

Sweeter  than  Eden  gleams. 
And  no  dark  underswell  of  thought 

Troubled  the  sea  of  dreams. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra  "  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1855.     The  revision  is  given 
here, 


190  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Low  down  beneath  an  oaken  roof 

Of  dim  leaves  by  the  sea  — 
Where  then  we  lingered,  sorrow-proof, 

My  gentle  love  and  me  — 
While  sunset  softly  lights  the  bower, 

And  wave  embraces  wave, 
The  shadow  of  the  passion  flower 

Lies  darkly  on  his  grave. 
And  musing  of  his  pillow  low, 

His  slumber  deep  and  long, 
My  heart  keeps  heaving  to  and  fro 

Upon  the  waves  of  song. 
No  more  through  sunset's  sinking  fire 

Are  Eden-gleams  descried, 
The  sweetest  chord  of  all  life's  lyre 

Was  shattered  when  he  died. 
Yet  not  one  memory  would  I  sell, 

However  woeful  proved, 
For  all  the  brightest  joys  that  dwell 

In  souls  that  never  loved. 


DISSATISFIED.* 

For  me,  in  all  life's  desert  sand 

No  well  is  made,  no  tent  is  spread ; 
No  father's  nor  a  brother's  hand 

Is  laid  in  blessing  on  my  head. 
The  radiance  of  my  mortal  star 

Is  crossed  with  signs  of  woe  to  me. 
And  all  my  thoughts  and  wishes  are 

Sad  wanderers  toward  eternity. 

Stricken,  riven  helplessly  apart 

From  all  that  blest  the  path  I  trod ; 
Oh  tempt  me,  tempt  me  not,  my  heart, 

To  arraign  the  goodness  of  my  God ! 
For  suffering  hath  been  made  sublime, 

And  souls,  that  lived  and  died  alone, 
Have  left  an  echo  for  all  time, 

As  they  went  wailing  to  the  throne. 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra"  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1855.    The  revision  is  given 
here. 


DYING   SONG.  191 

There  have  been  moments  when  I  daued 

Believe  life's  mystery  a  breath, 
And  deem  Faith's  beauteous  bosom  bared 

To  the  betraying  arms  of  Death ; 
For  the  immortal  life  but  mocks 

The  soul  that  feels  its  ruin  dire, 
And  like  a  tortured  demon  rocks 

Upon  the  cradling  waves  of  fire. 
To  mine  is  pressed  no  loving  lip. 

Around  me  twines  no  helping  arm  : 
And  like  a  frail  dismasted  ship 

I  blindly  drift  before  the  storm. 


DYING   SONG.* 

Leave  me,  0  leave  me  !  my  o'er-wearied  feet, 
0  my  beloved  !  may  walk  no  more  with  thee ; 

For  I  am  standing  where  the  circles  meet 
That  mortals  name,  Time  and  Eternity. 

Tell  me,  0  tell  me  not  of  summer  flowers 
In  vales  where  once  our  steps  together  trod; 

Even  though  I  now  behold  the  shining  towers 
That  rise  above  the  city  of  our  God. 

I  know  that  the  wide  fields  of  heaven  are  fair  — 
That  on  their  borders  grief  is  all  forgot, 

That  the  white  tents  of  JDeauty,  too,  are  there  — 
But  how  shall  I  be  blessed  where  thou  art  not  ? 

Over  the  green  hills,  that  are  only  crossed 
By  drifts  of  light,  and  choruses  of  glee. 

How  shall  I  wander  like  a  spirit  lost, 

And  fallen  and  ruined,  missing,  mourning  thee ! 

If  any  wrong  of  mine,  or  thought,  or  said. 
Has  given  thee  pain  or  sorrow,  0  forgive ! 

As  wilt  thou  not,  my  friend,  when  I  am  dead, 
And  by  my  errors  better  learn  to  live. 

*  Printed  in  ''  L3ra,"  as  wt'll  as  in  the  volume  of  1S55. 


192  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

There  is  not  found  in  all  the  pleasant  past, 

One  memory  of  thee  that  I  deplore, 
Or  wish  not  to  be  in  my  heart  at  last, 

When  I  -shall  fall  asleep  to  wake  no  more. 

Then  leave,  oh  leave  me !  though  I  see  the  light 
Of  heaven's  sweet  clime,  and  hear  the  angel's  call, 

Where  there  is  never  any  cloud  nor  night. 
Thy  love  is  stronger,  mightier  than  all ! 


LILY   LEE.* 


I  DID  love  thee,  Lily  Lee, 
As  the  petrel  loves  the  sea, 
As  the  wild  bee  loves  the  thyme, 
As  the  poet  loves  his  rhyme, 
As  the  blossom  loves  the  dew  — 
But  the  angels  loved  thee,  too ! 

Once  when  twilight's  dying  head 
Pressed  her  saffron-sheeted  bed. 
And  the  silent  stars  drew  near, 
White  and  tremulous  with  fear, 
While  the  night  with  sullen  frown 
Strangled  the  young  zephyr  down, 
Told  I  all  my  love  to  thee. 
Hoping,  fearing,  Lily  Lee. 

Fluttered  then  her  gentle  breast 
With  a  troubled,  sweet  unrest. 
Like  a  bird  too  near  the  net 
Which  the  fowler's  hand  hath  set ; 
But  her  mournful  eyes  the  while. 
And  her  spirit-speaking  smile. 
Told  me  love  could  not  dispart 
Death's  pale  arrow  from  her  heart. 

Hushing  from  that  very  day 
Passion  pleading  to  have  way  — 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


MIRACLES.  193 

Folding  close  her  little  hand, 
Watched  I  with  her,  till  the  sand, 
Crumbling  from  beneath  her  tread, 
Lowered  her  softly  to  the  dead, 
Where  in  peace  she  waits  for  me  — 
Sweetest,  dearest  Lily  Lee. 

As  the  chased  hart  loves  the  wave, 
As  blind  silence  loves  the  grave, 
As  the  penitent  loves  prayer, 
As  pale  passion  loves  despair, 
Loved  I,  and  still  love  I  thee, 
Angel-stolen  Lily  Lee. 


MIRACLES. 


An  old  man  sits  beside  a  wall, 
Where  grow  two  hollyhocks  —  one  tall 
And  flowerless,  one  bright  and  small. 

His  hair  is  full  of  silver  streaks, 

The  tears  are  running  down  his  cheeks. 

And  his  lip  trembles  as  he  speaks. 

"  Come,  little  daughter  Maud,  I  pray. 
And  tell  me  truly  why  you  stay 
So  often  and  so  long  away." 

A  moment,  and  two  arms,  so  fair, 
Are  round  his  neck  —  a  sunny  pair 
Of  eyes  look  on  him  —  Maud  is  there. 

"See,  pretty  dear,"  the  old  man  said, 
"  These  hollyhocks,  one  fresh  and  red 
With  youthful  bloom  —  the  other  dead. 

"  The  stony  wall  whereby  they  be, 
Is  the  hard  world,  and  you'll  agree 
The  hollyhocks  are  you  and  me. 


194  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

"  My  weary,  worn  out  life  is  done, 
With  all  of  rain,  and  dew,  and  sun, 
Thine,  darling,  is  but  just  begun. 

"  So  take  my  staff  and  hang  it  high, 
And. kiss  me:  jSTay,  you  must  not  cry, 
I  've  nothing  left  to  do  but  die ! " 

And  Maud  hath  made  her  blue  eyes  dry, 
And  in  a  whisper  makes  reply, 
"  And  if  you  die,  I  too  must  die  !  " 

That  night,  beside  the  stony  wall. 
Where  grew  two  hollyhocks  —  one  tall 
And  flowerless  —  one  bright  and  small  — 

Covered  with  moonshine  they  were  found, 
Lying  dead  together  on  the  ground, 
Their  arms  about  each  other  wouud. 

What  miracle  may  not  be  true. 
Since  oft  the  hardest  one  to  do 
Is  done  —  the  making  one  of  two  ? 


TOKENS. 


Truth,  with  her  calm  and  steady  eyes. 

Looked  sternly  in  my  face  one  morning. 
And  of  the  night,  that  closes  on 

Life's  worn  out  day,  I  saw  such  warning 
As  sunken  cheeks  and  gray  hairs  give. 

And  faint  smiles  fading  into  sorrow ; 
And  hiding  from  the  light  my  face, 

I  cried,  "Oh  night,  that  knows  no  morrow! 
Gather  your  solemn  clouds  away  ; 

And  leave  me  and  my  youth  together. 
And  make  its  joys  grow  thick  and  bright 

As  apples  in  the  summer  weather." 
And  night  was  silent,  and  the  sea 

Was  silent,  and  the  eyes  of  heaven 
Shut  under  lid-like  clouds,  and  thus 

An  answer  to  my  prayer  was  given. 


TO    THE   HOPEFUL.  195 

I  in  a  vision  went,  and  saw 

From  the  low  grave,  asunder  breaking, 
A  face  of  beauty  smiling  like 

A  baby's  in  the  cradle  waking ; 
And  heard  a  voice  that  said  to  me 

"Stay,  if  thou  wilt,  among  the  living; 
But  earth  thy  ancient  mother  is, 

And  rest  is  only  of  her  giving. 
Plain  is  the  creed  of  nature's  book, 

Daily  you  read  the  truthful  story 
That  when  the  day  is  dim  with  clouds 

The  twilight  has  the  most  of  glory. 
The  tassel  of  the  corn  must  fade  — 

The  ear  will  grow  not  in  its  shadow, 
And  for  the  winter  snow  there  blooms 

So  much  the  brighter  harvest  meadow. 
So,  send  no  more  instead  of  praise 

Through  God's  good  purposes,  a  sighing, 
The  gray  hairs  and  the  fading  cheeks 

Are  tokens  of  the  glorifying." 


TO  THE  HOPEFUL.* 

Hark  !  for  the  multitude  cry  out, 
Oh,  watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night ; 

And  hear  the  joyous  answering  shout. 
The  hills  are  red  with  light ! 

Lo !  where  the  followers  of  the  meek, 
Like  Johns,  are  crying  in  the  wild, 

The  leopard  lays  its  spotted  cheek 
Close  to  the  new-born  child. 

The  gallows-tree  with  tremor  thrills  — 
The  North  to  mercy's  plea  inclines ; 

And  round  about  the  Southern  hills 
Maidens  are  planting  vines. 

*  As  printed  in  "  Lyra,"  the  poem  had  two  additional  stanzas,  which  were  dropped 
from  the  reprint  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


196  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

The  star  that  trembled  softly  bright, 
Where  Mary  and  the  young  child  lay, 

Through  ages  of  unbroken  night 
Hath  tracked  his  luminous  way. 

From  the  dim  shadow  of  the  palm 
The  tattooed  islander  has  leant, 

Helping  to  swell  the  wondrous  psalm 
Of  love's  great  armament ! 

And  the  wild  Arab,  swart  and  grave, 
Looks  startled  from  his  tent,  and  scans 

Advancing  truth,  with  shining  wave. 
Washing  the  desert  sands. 

Forth  from  the  slaver's  deadly  crypt 
The  Ethiop  like  an  athlete  springs. 

And  from  her  long-worn  fetters  stript, 
The  dark  Liberian  sings. 

But  sorrow  to  and  fro  must  keep 

Its  heavings  until  evil  cease. 
Like  the  great  cradle  of  the  deep, 
'        Eocking  a  storm  to  peace. 


GOING  TO  SLEEP.* 

Now  put  the  waxen  candle  by, 

Or  shade  the  light  away. 
And  tell  me  if  you  think  she  '11  die 

Before  another  day. 
She  asked  me  but  an  hour  ago. 

What  time  the  moon  would  rise. 
And  when  I  told  her,  she  replied, 

"How  fair  't  will  make  the  skies." 
Then  came  a  smile  across  her  face, 

And  though  her  lips  were  dumb 
I  think  she  only  wished  to  live 

Until  that  hour  were  come. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lj'ra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


THE   DYING   MOTHER.  197 

And  folding  her  transparent  hands 

Together  on  her  breast, 
She  fell  in  such  a  tranquil  sleep 

As  scarce  seems  breathing  rest. 
Was  that  the  third  stroke  of  the  clock  ? 

The  hour  is  almost  told.  — 
Above  yon  bare  and  jagged  rock 

Should  shine  the  disk  of  gold. 
The  moon  is  coming  up  —  a  glow 

Euns  faint  along  the  blue, 
How  soft  her  sleep  is  !  shall  I  call, 

That  she  may  see  it  too  ? 
Nay,  friend,  she  would  not  see  the  light, 

Though  called  you  ne'er  so  loud, 
So  bring  of  linen,  dainty  white, 

The  measure  of  the  shroud. 
The  drowsy  sexton  may  not  wake, 

He  must  be  called  betimes, 
'T  will  take  him  all  the  day  to  make 

Her  grave  beneath  the  limes  ; 
For  when  our  little  Ellie  died, 

The  days  were,  oh,  so  long ! 
And  what  with  telling  ghostly  tales. 

And  humming  scraps  of  song. 
To  school-boys  gathered  curiously 

About  the  bed  so  chill, 
I  heard  him  digging  till 'the  sun 

Was  down  behind  the  hill. 

Oh,  do  not  weep  my  friend,  I  pray. 

This  rest  so  still  and  deep 
Keeps  all  the  evil  things  away 

That  troubled  once  her  sleep. 


THE  DYING  MOTHER.* 

We  were  weeping  round  her  pillow. 
For  we  knew  that  she  must  die ; 

It  was  night  within  our  bosoms  — 
It  was  night  within  the  sky. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855 


198  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

There  were  seven  of  us  children  — 
.    I  the  oldest  one  of  all ; 
So  I  tried  to  whisper  comfort, 
But  the  blinding  tears  would  fall. 

On  my  knee  my  little  brother 

Leaned  his  aching  brow  and  wept, 

And  my  sister's  long  black  tresses 
O'er  my  heaving  bosom  swept. 

The  shadow  of  an  awful  fear 
Came  o'er  me  as  I  trod, 

To  lay  the  burden  of  our  grief 
Before  the  throne  of  God. 

Oh  !  be  kind  to  one  another, 

Was  my  mother's  pleading  prayer, 

As  her  hand  lay  like  a  snow-flake 
On  the  baby's  golden  hair. 

Then  a  glory  bound  her  forehead, 
Like  the  glory  of  a  crown. 

And  in  the  silent  sea  of  death 
The  star  of  life  went  down. 

Her  latest  breath  was  borne  away 
Upon  that  loving  prayer. 

And  the  hand  grew  heavier,  paler, 
In  the  baby's  golden  hair. 


THE   LULLABY. 

I  HEAR  the  curlew's  lonesome  call. 
The  cushat  crooning  in  the  tree  — 

The  sunset  shadow  on  the  wall 

Fades  slowly  off  —  come  nearer  me. 

Sweet  Mary,  come  and  take  my  hand 
And  hold  it  close  and  kiss  my  cheek - 

The  tide  is  crawling  up  the  sand  — 
0,  Mary,  sweetest  sister,  speak. 


GLENLY  MOOR.  199 

And  say  my  fears  are  all  untrue, 

And  say  my  heart  has  boded  wrong  — 

How  slow  the  light  fades  —  never  grew 
A  twilight  half  nor  half  so  long. 

And  Mary  smiling  a  sad  smile, 
Looked  wistful  out  into  the  night. 

Combing  the  sick  girl's  hair  the  while, 
(Death-dampened)  with  her  fingers  white. 

And  still  the  curlew's  lonesome  call 
Went  on  —  the  cushat  wildly  well 

Crooned  in  the  tree,  and  on  the  wall 
Darker  and  darker  shadows  fell. 

How  gustily  the  night-time  falls ! 

Dear  Mary,  is  the  milking  past  ? 
And  are  the  oxen  in  their  stalls  — 

Hark!  is  't  the  rain  that  falls  so  fast  ? 

Kneel  softly  down  beside  r\\j  bed  — 

(How  terrible  the  storm  will  be,) 
And  say  again  the  prayer  you  said 

Last  night ;  but,  Mary,  not  for  me. 

The  cushat  still  went  crooning  on  — 
The  curlew  made  her  lonesome  cry  — 

The  sick  girl  fast  asleep  was  gone  — 
That  prayer  had  been  her  lullaby. 


GLENLY   MOOR.* 

The  summer's  golden  glow  was  fled, 
In  eve's  dim  arms  the  day  lay  dead. 
Over  the  dreary  woodland  wild. 
The  first  pale  star  looked  out  and  smiled 
On  Glenly  Moor. 

Nor  lonely  call  of  lingering  bird, 
Nor  insect's  cheerful  hum  was  heard, 

♦Printed  in  "  Lj'ra,"'  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


200  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Nor  traveler  in  the  closing  day 
Humming  along  the  grass-grown  way 
Of  Glenly  Moor. 

No  voice  was  in  the  sleepy  rills, 
No  light  shone  down  the  village  hills, 
And  withered  on  their  blackening  stalks 
Hung  the  last  flowers  along  the  walks 
Of  Glenly  Moor. 

Within  a  thin,  cold  drift  of  light 
The  buds  of  the  wild  rose  hung  bright, 
Where  broken  turf  and  new-set  stone 
Told  of  a  pale  one  left  alone 
In  Grlenly  Moor. 

All  the  clear  splendor  of  the  skies 
Was  gathered  from  her  meek  blue  eyes, 
And  therefore  shadows  dark  and  cold 
Hang  over  valley,  hill,  and  wold 
In  Glenly  Moor.. 

And  the  winged  morning  from  the  blue 
Winnowing  the  crimson  on  the  dew 
May  ne'er  unlock  the  hands  so  white 
That  lie  beneath  that  drift  of  light 
In  Glenly  Moor. 


EOSEMAEY   HILL.* 

'T  WAS  the  night  he  had  promised  to  meet  me, 

To  meet  me  on  Rosemary  Hill, 
And  I  said,  at  the  rise  of  the  eve-star. 

The  tryst  he  will  haste  to  fulfil. 

Then  I  looked  to  the  elm-bordered  valley, 
Where  the  undulous  mist  whitely  lay, 

But  I  saw  not  the  steps  of  my  lover 
Dividing  its  beauty  away. 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra"  and,  revised,  in  the  voluoje  of  1855,     The  revision  is  fol- 
lowed here. 


ROSEMARY  HILL.  201 

The  eve-star  rose  red  o'er  the  tree-tops, 
The  night-dews  fell  heavy  and  chill, 

And  wings  ceased  to  beat  through  the  shadows  — 
The  shadows  of  Rosemary  Hill. 

I  heard  not,  through  hoping  and  fearing, 

The  whippoorwill's  musical  cry, 
Nor  saw  I  the  pale  constellations 

That  lit  the  blue  reach  of  the  sky. 

But  fronting  despair  like  a  martyr, 

I  pled  with  my  heart  to  be  still, 
As  round  me  fell,  .deeper  and  darker, 

The  shadows  of  Rosemary  Hill. 

On  a  bough  that  was  withered  and  dying, 
I  leaned  as  the  midnight  grew  dumb. 

And  told  my  heart  over  and  over, 
How  often  he  said  he  would  come. 

He  is  hunting,  I  said,  in  dim  Arnau  — 

He  was  there  with  his  dogs  all  day  long  — 

And  is  weary  w^ith  winging  the  plover. 
Or  stayed  by  the  throstle's  sweet  song. 

Then  heard  I  the  whining  of  Eldrich, 

Of  Eldrich  so  blind  and  so  old, 
With  sleek  hide  embrowned  like  the  lion's. 

And  brindled  and  freckled  with  gold. 

How  the  pulse  of  despair  in  my  bosom 

Leapt  back  to  a  joyous  thrill, 
As  I  went  down  to  meet  my  dear  lover, 

Down  fleetly  from  Rosemary  Hill. 

More  near  seemed  the  whining  of  Eldrich, 

More  loudly  my  glad  bosom  beat ; 
When  lo  !  I  beheld  by  the  moonlight, 

A  newly  made  grave  at  my  feet. 

And  when  with  the  passion-vine  lovely, 
That  grew  by  the  stone  at  the  head. 

The  length  of  the  grave  I  had  measured, 
I  knew  that  my  lover  was  dead. 


202  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 


MY   BROTHER. 

The  beech-wood  fire  is  burning  bright 
'T  is  wild  November  weather  — 

Like  that  of  many  a  stormy  night 
We  've  sat  and  talked  together. 

Such  pretty  plans  for  future  years 

We  told  to  one  another  — 
I  cannot  choose  but  ask  with  tears, 

Where  are  they  now,  my  brother  ? 

Where  are  they  now,  the  dreams  we  dreamed 

That  scattered  sunshine  o'er  us, 
And  where  the  hills  of  flowers  that  seemed 

A  little  way  before  us  ? 

The  hills  with  golden  tops,  and  springs, 
Than  which  no  springs  were  clearer  ? 

Ah  me,  for  all  our  journey ings 
They  are  not  any  nearer ! 

One,  last  year,  who  with  sunny  eyes 

A  watch  with  me  was  keeping. 
Is  gone  :  across  the  next  hill  lies 

The  snow  upon  her  sleeping. 

And  so  alone,  night  after  night, 

I  keep  the  fire  a-buraing. 
And  trim  and  make  the  candle  light, 

And  watch  for  your  returning. 

The  clock  ticks  slow,  the  cricket  tame 

Is  on  the  hearth-stone  crying. 
And  the  old  Bible  just  the  same 

Is  on  the  table  lying. 

The  watch-dog  whines  beside  the  door, 
My  hands  forget  the  knitting  — 

Oh,  shall  we  ever  any  more 
Together  here  be  sitting ! 


NELLIE,    WATCHING.  203 

Sometimes  I  wish  the  winds  would  sink, 

The  cricket  hush  its  humming, 
The  while  I  listened,  for  1  think 

J.  hear  a  footstep  coming. 

Just  as  it  used  so  long  ago ; 

My  cry  of  joy  I  smother  — 
'T  is  only  fancy  cheats  me  so. 

And  never  thou,  my  brother ! 


NELLIE,   WATCHING. 


You  might  see  the  river  shore 
Erom  the  shady  cottage  door 
Where  she  sat,  a  maiden  mild  — 
Not  a  woman,  not  a  child ; 
But  the  grace  which  heaven  confers 
On  the  two,  I  trow  was  hers : 
Dimpled  cheek,  and  laughing  eyes, 
Blue  as  bluest  summer  skies. 
And  the  snowy  fall  and  rise 
Of  a  bosom,  stirred,  I  weet. 
By  some  thought  as  dewy  sweet 
As  the  red  ripe  strawberries. 
Which  the  morning  mower  sees; 
Locks  so  long  and  brown  (half  down 
Erom  the  modest  wnld-flower  crown 
That  she  made  an  hour  ago. 
Saying,  '•'  I  will  wear  it,  though 
None  will  praise  it,  that  I  know !  ") 
Twined  she  round  her  fingers  white  - 
Sitting  careless  in  the  light. 
Sweetly  mixed  of  day  and  night  — 
Twined  she,  peeping  sly  the  while 
Down  the  valley,  like  an  aisle. 
Sloping  to  the  river-side. 
Blue-eyes  !  wherefore  ope  so  wide  ? 
They  are  fishers  on  the  shore 
That  you  look  on —  nothing  more. 


204  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Pettishly  she  pouts  —  ah  me  ! 
Saucy  Nellie,  you  will  see 
Ere  an  hour  has  fled  away, 
Little  recks  it  what  you  say  — 
That  those  eyes  with  anger  frowning 
Darkly,  will  be  near  to  drowning, 
And  the  lips  repeating  so 
Oft  and  proudly  "  Let  him  go !  " 
Will  be  sighing. 

Ah,  I  know ! 
I  have  watched  as  you  have  done 
This  fair  twilight,  pretty  one, 
Watched  in  trembling  hope,  and  know 
Spite  of  all  your  frowning  so. 
That  the  wave  of  sorrow,  flowing 
In  your  heart,  will  soon  be  showing 
In  the  cheek,  now  brightly  blushing,  — 
Hark !  't  is  but  the  wild  birds  hushing 
To  their  nests  —  and  not  a  lover 
Brushing  through  the  valley  clover! 


Purple  as  the  morning-glories 

Round  her  head  the  shadows  fall ; 
Is  she  thinking  of  sad  stories. 

That,  when  wild  winds  shriek  and  call, 
And  the  snow  comes,  good  old  folks, 

Sitting  by  the  fire  together, 
Tell,  until  the  midnight  cocks 

Shrilly  crow  from  hill  to  hill — 

Stories,  not  befitting  ill 
Wintry  nights  and  wintry  weather  ? 


The  small  foot  that  late  was  tapping 
On  the  floor,  has  ceased  its  rapping, 
And  the  blue  eyes  opened  wide, 
Half  in  anger,  half  in  pride, 
Now  are  closed  as  in  despair. 
And  the  flowers  that  she  would  wear 
Whether  they  were  praised  or  no, 
On  the  ground  are  lying  low. 


NELLIE,    WATCHING.  205 

Foolish  Nellie,  see  the  moon, 
Round  and  red,  and  think  that  June 

Will  be  here  another  day, 
And  the  apple-boughs  will  grow 
Brighter  than  a  month  ago : 

Beauty  dies  not  with  the  May ! 
And  beneath  the  hedgerow  leaves, 
All  the  softly-falling  eves, 
When  the  yellow  bees  are  humming 
And  the  blue  and  black  birds  coming 
In  at  will,  we  two  shall  walk, 
Making  out  of  songs  or  talk 
Quiet  pastime. 

ISTellie  said, 
"  Those  fine  eves  I  shall  be  dead, 
For  I  cannot  live  and  see 
Him  I  love  so,  false  to  me, 
And  till  now  I  never  staid 
Watching  vainly  in  the  shade." 

"  In  good  sooth,  you  are  betrayed ! 

For  I  heard  you,  careless,  saying, 
^  'T  is  not  /  for  love  that  pine,' 

And  I  've  been  a  long  hour  staying 
In  the  shadow  of  the  vine  ! " 

So  a  laughing  voice,  but  tender. 
Said  to  Nellie  :  quick  the  splendor 

Of  the  full  moon  seemed  to  fade, 
For  the  smiling  and  the  blushing 

Filling  all  the  evening  shade. 
It  was  not  the  wild  birds  hushing 

To  their  nests  an  hour  ago. 
But  in  verity  a  lover 
Brushing  through  the  valley-clover. 

Would  all  watches  maidens  keep. 
When  they  sit  alone  and  weep 
For  their  heart-aches,  ended  so ! 


206  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 


ROSALIE. 

From  the  rough  bark  green  buds  were  breaking ; 

The  birds  chirped  gaily  for  the  taking 

Of  summer  mates ;  April  was  trilling, 

Like  a  young  psaltress,  to  the  wind, 

That  stopt  from  dancing  to  unbind 

The  primrose  ;  for  the  thawing  weather 

The  runnels  brimmed.     We  were  together  — 

I  singing  out  aloud,  she  stilling 
Her  hurried  heart-beats.     While,  that  day, 

Idly  I  hummed  the  poet's  rhyming. 
Her  thoughts  were  all  another  way. 

Where  the  white  flower  of  love  was  climbing 
Through  sunshine  of  sweet  eyes  —  not  mine ! 

AVe  were  divided  by  that  light :  > 

The  self-same  minute  we  might  twine 

Our  distaffs  with  new  flax  —  at  night 
Put  by  our  wheels  at  once ;  the  gloaming 
Fall  just  the  same  upon  the  combing 
And  braiding  of  our  hair  —  in  vain ! 
Our  hearts  were  never  one  again. 

Beneath  the  barn-roof,  thick  with  moss, 

Eumbled  the  fanmill ;  uncomplaining, 

The  oxen  from  its  golden  raining 
(One  milky-white,  the  other  dun) 

Went  the  long  day  to  plow  across 
The  stubble,  slantwise  from  the  sun. 

The  yellow  mist  was  on  the  thorns, 
And  here  and  there  a  fork  of  flowers 
Shone  whiter  than,  athwart  the  showers 

Of  winnowed  chaff,  the  heifer's  horns. 
And  while  the  springtime  came  and  went 

With  showery  clouds  and  sunny  gleaming, 

We  were  together :  she  a-dreamiug, 
I  scarcely  happy,  yet  content. 

Alone  beside  the  southern  wall 

I  digged  the  earth ;  the  summer  flowers 
In  pleasant  times,  betwixt  the  showers, 

I  sadly  planted,  one  and  all ; 


JUSTIFIED.  207 

And  when  they  made  a  crimson  blind 

Before  the  window  with  their  bloom, 

I  spun  alone  within  the  room  — 
Right  hardly  did  the  wisps  unbind, 

So  wet  they  were  with  tears.     Ah,  me  ! 
Blithe  songs  they  said  the  winds  were  blowing  — 
From  where  the  harvesters  were  mowing  — 

I  only  cared  for  Rosalie. 

'T  was  autumn  ;  gray  with  twilight's  hue, 
The  embers  of  the  day  were  lying ; 
Athwart  the  dusk  the  bat  was  flying, 

And  insects  made  their  faint  ado. 

So  evening  sloped  into  the  night, 
And  all  the  black  tops  of  the  furs 
Shone  as  with  golden,  prickly  burrs, 

So  small  the  stars  were,  and  so  bright.  \ 

Close  by  the  homestead,  old  and  low, 
A  gnarled  and  knotty  oak  was  growing. 
And  shadows  of  red  leaves  were  blowing 

Across  the  coverlid  of  snow. 

Awake,  sweet  Rosalie,  I  said. 

The  moon's  pale  fires  run  harmlessly 
Down  the  dry  holts  —  awake  and  see  ! 

She  did  not  turn  her  in  the  bed. 

My  heart,  I  thought,  must  fall  abreaking : 
All  —  all  but  one  wild  wish  —  was  past : 

For  that  white  sunken  mouth,  once  speaking, 
To  say  she  loved  me,  at  the  last ! 

Two  comforts  yet  were  mine  to  keep : 
Betwixt  her  and  her  faithless  lover 
Bright  grass  would  spread  a  flowery  cover ; 

And  Rosalie  was  well  asleep. 


JUSTIFIED. 


Come  up,  my  heart,  come  from  thy  hiding-place : 
Stern  memory  grows  importunate  to  make 
Hard  accusation ;  and  if  that  I  be 
Not  grossly  misadvised,  thou  'rt  much  to  blame. 


208  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Was  't  thou,  that  on  a  certain  April  night, 
When  sweetnesses  were  breaking  all  the  buds, 
And  the  red  creeping  vines  of  strawberries 
Hung  out  their  dainty  blossoms  toward  the  sun  — 
When  first  the  dandelion  from  his  cell 
Came,  like  a  miser  dragging  up  his  gold, 
And  making  envious  the  poor  traveler, 
And  the  wild  brook  —  thou  wottest  how  it  ran, 
Betwixt  the  stubbly  oat-field  and  the  slope 
Where,  free  from  needless  shepherding,  that  night 
The  sheep  w^ent  cropping  thistle  leaves,  and  I 
For  the  soft  tinkling  of  their  silver  bells 
Staid  listening,  so  I  said,  and  said  again. 
To  be  unto  my  conscience  justified  — 
Was 't  thou  that  tempted  me  to  let  the  dew 
Of  midnight  straiten  all  my  pretty  curls. 
And  woo  the  bat-like  clinging  damps  to  come 
And  bleach  the  morning  blushes  from  my  cheeks  ? 
Ah,  me !  how  many  years  since  that  same  night 
Have  come  and  gone,  nor  brought  a  fellow  to  it ! 
Thou  need'st  not  shake  so,  guilty  prisoner. 
For  though  those  white  hairs  round  my  forehead  teach 
A  judgment  cold  and  passionless,  and  though 
The  hand  that  writes  is  palsy-touched,  withal, 
I  cannot  wrong  so  deeply,  grievously, 
The  glorifying  beauty  of  the  world, 
As  to  declare  that  thou  art  all  condemned ! 

Yet  stay,  I  pray  thee :  make  some  sweet  excuse 
To  that  staid  saintly  dame.  Austerity  ; 
For  she  and  I  have  been  a  thousand  times 
At  variance  about  her  sober  rule. 
Once  when  I  left  my  gleaning  in  the  wheat, 
(The  time  was  June,  sunset  within  an  hour,) 
And  underneath  a  hedge,  that  rained  down  flowers 
Of  hawthorn  and  wild  roses  in  my  lap. 
Sat  idling  with  young  Jocelyn,  till  that 
The  shadows  of  the  mowers,  stretching  out 
Like  threatening  ghosts,  did  cut  our  pastime  off, 
She  rated  me  so  mercilessly  hard 
That  I  was  fain  with  fables  to  make  peace. 
I  said  that  I  was  tired,  and  that  a  bird. 
Soft-singing  in  the  hedge,  drew  me  that  way ; 
And  then  I  said  I  looked  for  catydids, 


ISIDORE'S  DREAM.  209 

(It  was  three  months  before  their  chirping  time,) 

And  that  't  was  pleasant  to  look  thence  and  see 

The  snnshine  topping  all  the  wide-leaved  corn, 

And  the  young  a])ples  on  the  orchard  boughs 

With  the  betraying  red  upon  their  cheeks. 

What  other  most  improbable  conceits 

I  told  to  her,  I  now  remember  not; 

But  I  remember  that  her  frowning  brows 

So  chid  me  to  confusion  that  I  said 

It  was  not  Jocelyn  that  kept  me  there ! 

She  smiled,  and  we  since  then  are  enemies. 

Silent  ?  thou  hast  no  eloquence  to  win 

Her  cold  regard  upon  my  waywardness. 

Well,  be  it  so !  and  though  the  great  wide  world 

Stare  blank  that  I  do  soften  judgment  so, 

Thou  stand'st  acquitted,  yea,  and  justified. 


ISIDORE'S   DKEAM. 

I  WANDERED  in  a  visionary  field : 

Lilacs  were  purpling  out,  the  ousel,  fleet. 

Plunged  in  the  rainy  brook  ;  the  air  was  sweet 
With  sprouting  beech  buds ;  and  the  full  moon  sealed 

The  red-leaved  book  of  evening  with  pure  white ; 

The  golden  falling  of  a  bridal  night 
Were  scarcely  to  a  lover's  eyes  so  fair  — 
And  yet  my  thoughts  clung,  bat-like,  to  despair. 
I  would  not  see  the  green  and  pleasant  grass. 

But  willows  dim  and  cypresses  instead ; 
I  said  they  made  me  sad,  and  sighed,  Alas ! 

And  said.  Another  year  I  should  be  dead, 
And  rest  from  labor  and  be  done  with  care  — 

That  the  May  moon  would  wrap  my  grave  with  light ; 

And  picking  in  my  lap  the  daisies  white, 
I  braided  such  a  crown  as  corpses  wear. 

Walking  the  visionary  meadow  o'er, 

My  wreath  upon  my  arm,  and  sighing  so. 
And  praying  to  be  dead,  the  day-break  snow 

Blushed  red  as  any  rose:  "Come,  Isidore  — 
In  the  dim  rainy  East  an  hour  agone 


210  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

The  sun  was  traveling ;  wake,  I  pray  thee,  sweet ! 

One  kiss  before  we  part,  perhaps  to  meet 
Xext  in  eternity."     My  dream  went  on 

The  same  sad  way  when  I  was  wide  awake. 

And  still  through  all  the  days  and  nights  I  sigh, 
And  try  to  make  my  heart  believe  that  I 

Am  grieved  for  anything  but  love's  sweet  sake. 


BURNS*! 


He  died :  he  went  from  all  the  praise 

That  fell  on  ears  unheeding. 
And  scarcely  can  we  read  his  lays 

For  pauses  in  the  reading. 
To  mourn  the  buds  of  poesy, 

That  never  came  to  blushing  •, 
For  who  can  choose  but  sigh,  ah  me ! 

For  their  untimely  crushing ! 

And  when  we  see,  o'er  ruins  dim, 

The  summer  roses  climbing. 
We  sadly  pause,  and  think  of  him, 

The  beauty  of  whose  rhyming 
Spread  sunshine  o'er  the  darkest  ill,  — 

Alas  !  it  could  not  cover 
The  heart  from  breaking,  that  was  still 

Through  all  despairs  a  lover  — 


A  lover  of  the  beautiful. 

In  nature's  sweet  evangels; 
For  his  great  heart  was  worshipful. 

For  men,  and  for  the  angels. 
The  rank  with  him  was  not  the  man, 

He  knew  no  servile  bowing ; 
And  wee  things  o'er  the  furrow  ran 

Unharmed  beside  his  plowing. 

*  Written  on  reading  in  the  Letters  of  Burns,  "  We  have  no  flour  in  the  house^ 
and  must  borrow  for  a  few  days,"  — Authot^'s  Note. 
t  Compare  Mrs.  Browning's  poem  on  "Cowper." 


THE   EMIGRANTS.  211 

Lights  flowing  out  of  palaces 

Dimmed  not  the  candles  burning, 
Whereby  the  glorious  mysteries 

Of  music  he  was  learning ; 
And  not  with  envious  looks  he  eyed 

The  morning  larks  upgoing, 
From  meadows  that  were  all  too  wide 

And  green  for  peasant  mowing. 

For  by  his  cabin  door  the  green 

Was  pleasant  with  the  daisies ; 
And  o'er  the  brae,  some  bonny  lass 

Was  happy  in  his  praises. 
Oh  Thou  who  hear'st  my  simple  strain, 

The  while  I  muse  his  story  — 
Here  knew  he  all  a  poet's  pain, 

Grant  now  he  have  the  glory ! 


THE   EMIGRANTS. 

Don't  you  remember  how  oft  you  have  said, 

Darling  Coralin  May, 
"  When  the  hawthorns  are  blossoming  we  shall  wed, 

And  then  to  the  prairie  away  !  " 
And  now,  all  over  the  hills  they  peep, 

Milkwhite,  out  of  the  spray. 
And  sadly  you  turn  to  the  past  and  weep. 

Darling  Coralin  May. 

When  the  cricket  chirped  in  the  hickory  blaze. 

You  cheerily  sung,  you  know,  — 
"  Oh  for  the  sunnier  summer  days, 

And  the  time  when  we  shall  go !" 
The  corn-blades  now  are  unfolding  bright. 

While  busilv  calls  the  crow ; 
And  clovers  are  opening  red  and  white. 

And  the  time  has  come  to  go  — 

To  go  to  the  cabin  our  love  has  planned. 

On  the  prairie  green  and  gay, 
In  the  blushing  light  of  the  sunset  land, 

Darling  Coralin  May. 


212  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

"  How  happy  our  lives  will  be,"  you  said, 

Don't  you  remember  the  day  ? 
"  When  our  hands  shall  be,  as  our  hearts  are,  wed !  " 

Darling  Coralin  May. 

"  How  sweet,"  you  said,  "  when  my  work  is  o'er, 

And  your  axe  yet  ringing  clear. 
To  sit  and  watch  at  the  lowly  door 

Of  our  home  in  the  prairie,  dear." 
The  rose  is  ripe  by  the  window  now. 

And  the  cool  spring  flowing  near ; 
But  shadows  fall  on  the  heart  and  brow 

From  the  home  we  are  leaving  here. 


RINALDO. 


A  fisherman's  children,  we  dwelt  by  the  sea, 
My  good  little  brother  Rinaldo  and  me. 
Contented  and  happy  as  happy  could  be  — 

Of  blossoms  no  other 
Was  fair  as  the  bright  one  that  bloomed  on  his  cheek, 
And  gentle  —  oh  never  a  lamb  was  so  meek  — 
I  wish  he  were  living  and  heard  what  I  speak. 

My  lost  little  brother  ! 

One  night  when  our  father  was  out  on  the  sea. 

We  went  through  the  moonlight,  my  brother  and  me, 

And  watched  for  his  coming  beneath  an  old  tree, 

The  leaves  of  which  hooded 
A  raven  whose  sorrowful  croak  in  the  shade 
So  dismally  sounded,  it  made  us  afraid, 
And  kneeling  together  for  shelter  we  prayed 

From  the  evil  it  boded. 

At  the  school  on  the  hill,  not  a  week  from  that  day, 
The  thick  cloud  of  playing  broke  wildly  away. 
And  the  laughter  that  lately  went  ringing  so  gay 

Was  changed  to  a  crying, 
And  leaping  the  ditches  and  climbing  the  wall, 
'Twixt  home  and  the  schoolhouse  came  one  at  our  call, 
And  told  us  the  youngest  and  best  of  them  all, 

Rinaldo  was  dying. 


JULIET  TO  ROMEO.  213 

There  was  watching  and  weeping,  and  when  he  was  dead 
'Neath  that  tree  by  the  seaside  they  made  him  a  bed ; 
A  stone  that  was  nameless  and  rude  at  his  head  — 

His  feet  had  another ; 
And  the  schoohnaster  said,  though  we  laid  him  so  low, 
And  so  humbly  and  nameless,  we  surely  should  know 
For  his  beauty,  where  only  the  beautiful  go  — 

My  good  little  brother. 


JULIET   TO   EOMEO. 

Nay,  sweet,  one  moment  more,  thy  lips,  mayhap, 
Will  soothe  this  heavy  aching  in  my  brows  — 
Stay,  while  the  twilight  in  the  dusky  boughs 

Sits  smiling  with  the  moon  upon  her  lap. 

And  dost  thou  kiss  me  to  be  free  to  go  ? 
How  royally  the  purple  shadows  sway 
Across  the  gorgeous  chamber  of  dead  day ; 

Now  pr'ythee,  stay,  while  they  are  shining  so. 

That  kiss  has  made  me  better  —  I  shall  be 
Quite  well  anon  —  nay,  gentle  Romeo, 
I  hear  the  vesper-chanting,  soft  and  low  — 

When  the  last  echo  dies  thou  shalt  be  free. 

Could  that  have  been  the  owlet's  cry  ?  the  light 
Is  scarcely  faded  from  the  hill-tops  yet, 
'T  is  not  a  half  hour  since  the  sun  was  set ; 

Wait  dear  one,  for  the  dim  concealing  night. 


y,    iWi.     u-iJ-v^    viiiii     v^wj_Lv^v^i.i.j.j.j.i^    -'■'^O^ 


The  bell  is  striking ;  hark !  't  is  only  nine, 
I  counted  truly,  love,  it  was  not  ten  — 
Would  you  be  falsest  of  all  faithless  men, 

And  leave  me  in  the  lonely  night  to  pine ! 

I  hear  the  watch-dog  baying  at  the  moon, 
And  hear  the  noisy  cock  crow  loud  and  long 
He  cannot  cheat  me  with  his  shrilly  song  — 

I  know  the  midnight  has  not  come  so  soon. 


214  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

What  ruddy  streaks  are  running  up  the  sky  - 
Is  that  the  lark  that  past  the  turret  flies ! 
Ah  me,  't  is  morning's  golden-lidded  eyes 

Peeping  above  the  hills ;  so,  sweet,  good-by  ! 


OF   HOME. 


My  heart  made  pictures  all  to-day 

Of  the  old  homestead  far  away. 

It  is  the  middle  of  the  May, 
And  the  moon  is  shining  full  and  bright  — 
The  middle  of  May,  and  the  middle  of  night. 

Darkly  against  the  southern  wall, 
Three  cherry-trees,  so  smooth  and  tall, 
Their  shadows  cast  —  we  planted  all. 

One  morning  in  March  that  is  long  gone  by,  - 

My  brother  Carolan  and  I. 

I  hear  the  old  clock  tick  and  tick 
In  the  small  parlor,  see  the  thick 
Unfeathered  wings  of  bats,  that  stick 
To  moon-lit  windows,  see  the  mouse, 
Noiseless,  peering  about  the  house. 

I  'm  going  up  the  winding  stairs, 
I  'm  counting  all  the  vacant  chairs. 
And  sadly  saying,  "  They  were  theirs,  — 
The  brothers  and  sisters  who  no  more 
Go  in  and  out  at  the  homestead  door." 

I  hear  my  sweet- voiced  mother  say, 
"  Leave,  children,  leave  all  work  to-day, 
And  go  into  the  fields  and  play." 
And  the  birds  are  singing  where'er  we  go  — 
How  beautiful,  to  be  dreaming  so ! 

And  yet,  while  I  am  dreaming  on, 
I  know  my  playmates  all  are  gone ; 
That  none  the  hope  of  our  childhood  keep. 
That  some  are  weary,  and  some  asleep. 
And  that  I  from  the  homestead  am  far  away 
This  middle  of  night,  in  the  middle  of  May. 


ilfY   FRIEND.  215 


MY   FRIEND. 


Along  the  west  the  stormy  red 

Burned  blackest  gaps  afar  and  near ; 
Across  the  coverlid  of  snow 
We  saw  the  shadows  come  and  go, 
But  no  one  to  his  neighbor  said 
His  saddest  fear. 

Peered  from  his  hole  the  bright-eyed  mouse, 
The  winds  were  blowing  wild  and  wide, 

Up  the  bleak  sand  the  tide  ran  white 

And  icy  as  the  full  moon's  light, 
And  in  his  lonesome  hollow  house 
The  brown  owl  cried. 

We  knew  her  pain  and  care  were  o'er, 

AVe  knew  that  angels  led  the  way. 
Yet  wept,  and  could  not  choose  but  weep 
The  while  we  saw  her  go  to  sleep 
For  the  long  night  that  falls  before 
The  eternal  day. 

The  starlight  glimmering  faintly  through 

The  window,  shone  beside  her  bed, 
But  ere  the  solemn  time  had  worn 
To  the  white  breaking  of  the  morn, 
It  faded  off.     Alas,  I  knew 
That  she  was  dead. 

I  put  my  hair  before  my  eyes. 

And  all  my  soul  to  sorrow  gave  ; 
My  only  comfort  was  to  know 
That  she  no  longer  saw  my  woe  — 
All  heaven  was  gone  out  of  the  skies 
Into  the  grave. 

From  off  the  windy  threshing  floors 

The  dust  in  golden  flaws  was  blown. 
The  cock  crew  out,  flail  answered  flail, 
And  limbs  of  apples,  red  and  pale, 
Beside  the  open  cottage  doors, 
Together  shone. 


216  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

They  kissed  me,  saying  I  must  know 

How  sober  plenty  smiled  for  me, 
But  round  my  mortal  life  there  lay 
And  shall  do  till  my  dying  day, 
Thy  still  and  awful  shadow,  oh 
Eternity ! 


PARTING  AND   MEETING. 

Like  music  in  a  reed,  the  light 

Was  shut  up  in  the  dim,  wild  night ; 
And  'twixt  the  black  boughs  fell  the  snowing 
The  black  March  boughs  together  blowing. 
Till  hill  and  valley  all  were  white. 

The  windows  of  the  old  house  glowed 
With  the  dry  hickory,  burning  brightly. 
As  in  the  old  house  burned  it  nightly ; 
So  little  cared  they  that  it  snowed  — 
The  two  my  rhyme  is  of.     If  tears 
Or  shadows  filled  the  eyes,  else  lit 
With  sunshine,  it  were  best  unwrit. 
And  all  about  sweet  hopes  and  fears 
Were  best  unsaid,  too.     Tares  will  grow 
In  spite  of  the  most  careful  sowing ; 
We  find  them  in  the  time  of  mowing, 
Instead  of  flowers,  we  all  do  know. 

So  it  were  better  that  I  write 

No  whit  about  the  lady's  sighing ; 

'T  were  better  said  she  had  been  tying, 

To  make  it  pretty  for  the  night. 

Buds,  white  and  scarlet,  in  her  hair  ;  — 
And  that  the  ribbon  she  should  wear 
Had  sadly  vexed  her  —  not  a  hue. 
Purple  nor  carmine  that  would  do ; 

Or  that  the  cowslips  of  the  May, 
Her  little  hand  had  freely  given  — 
Nay,  more,  the  sweetest  star  of  heaven  — 

To  gain  a  rose  the  more  that  day 
For  her  sad  cheek :  so  foolish  runs 


PARTING  AND  MEETING.  217 

In  all  of  lis  the  blood  of  youth 

Ere  wintry  frosts  or  summer  suns 
Bleach  fancy's  fabrics,  and  the  truth 

Of  sober  senses  turns  aside 

The  images  once  deified. 

It  was  a  time  of  parting  dread  — 
For  middle  night  the  cock  was  crowing, 
The  black  March  boughs  together  blowing, 

The  lady  mourning  to  be  dead ; 
And  idly  pulling  down  the  'flowers, 

Tied  prettily  about  her  hair  — 

Alas  !  she  had  but  little  care 
For  any  bliss  of  future  hours ! 
That  parting  made  the  world  all  dim 

To  her,  which  ever  way  she  saw ; 
I  know  not  what  it  was  to  him  — 

Haply  but  as  the  gusty  flaw 
That  went  before  the  buds  —  if  so, 
Hers  was  a  doubly  piteous  woe ! 
And  years  are  gone,  or  fast  or  slow, 

And  many  a  love  has  had  its  making 

Since  these  two  parted,  at  the  breaking 
Of  daylight,  whiter  than  the  snow. 

Again  't  is  March  :  the  lady's  brows 

Are  circled  with  another  light 
Than  that  of  burning  hickory  boughs. 

Which  lit  the  house  that  parting  night. 
And  they  have  met :  the  eyes  so  sweet 

In  the  old  time  again  she  sees  — 

Hears  the  same  voice  —  and  yet  for  these 
Her  heart  has  not  an  added  beat. 

If  there  be  tremblings  now,  or  sighs, 
They  are  not  hers ;  she  feels  no  sorrow 
That  he  will  be  away  to-morrow, 

Nor  joy  that  bridal  mornings  rise 
Out  of  his  smiling  —  she  is  free  ! 

Oh,  give  her  pity,  give  her  tears ! 
By  one  great  wave  of  passion's  sea. 

Drifted  alike  from  hopes  and  fears. 


218  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

A   RUIN  * 

A  SILVER  mist  tlie  valley  shrouds, 

The  summer  day  is  nearly  by ; 
Like  pyramids  of  flowers,  the  clouds 

Are  floating  in  the  sunset  sky. 
Now  up  the  hills  the  white  mists  curl, 

The  dew  shines  in  the  vale  below, 
And  on  the  oak,  like  beads  of  pearl. 

The  white  buds  of  the  mistletoe. 
The  rustling  shadows,  dropt  with  gold. 

Among  the  boughs  of  green  and  white, 
Are  mingling  softly,  soon  to  fold 

In  their  embrace  the  fainting  light. 
"Lone  one,  above  whose  solemn  brow 

The  oak  leaves  wave  so  green  and  slow. 
Night,  gloomy  night  is  darkening  now : 

Sweet  friend,  arise  and  let  us  go." 

Lifting  his  head  a  little  up 

From  the  poor  pillow  where  it  lay. 
And  pushing  from  his  forehead  pale 

The  long,  damp  tresses  all  away  — 
He  told  me  with  the  eager  haste 

Of  one  who  dare  not  trust  his  words, 
He  knew  a  mortal  with  a  voice 

As  low  and  lovely  as  a  bird's ; 
But  that  he  saw  once  in  a  dell 

Away  from  them  a  weary  space, 
A  fragile  lily,  which  as  well 

Might  woo  that  old  oak's  green  embrace. 
As  for  his  heart  to  hope  that  she. 

Whose  palace  chambers  ne'er  grew  dim, 
Would  leave  the  light  in  which  she  moved 

To  wander  through  the  dark  with  him ; 

For  that,  once  being  out  to  sow 
The  rows  of  poppies  in  the  corn, 

She  crossed  him,  and  he,  kneeling  low. 
Said,  "  Sweetest  lady  e'er  was  born. 

Have  pity  on  my  love  ; "  but  quite 
Her  scornful  eyes  eclipsed  the  day ; 

*  This  poem  is  substantially  a  revision  of  "  Pitied  Love,"  see  p.  57. 


THE  POET.  219 

And  passing,  all  the  hills  grew  bright, 

As  if  the  spring  had  gone  that  way. 
And  he,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did, 

But  feeling  that  his  heart  was  broke, 
Fled  from  her  pitiless  glance,  and  hid 

In  the  cold  shadows  of  that  oak, 
Where,  as  he  said,  she  came  at  night, 

And  clasped  him  from  the  bitter  air, 
With  her  soft  arms  of  fairest  white. 

And  the  dark  beauty  of  her  hair. 
But  when  the  morning  lit  the  spray, 

And  hung  its  wreath  about  his  head, 
The  lovely  lady  passed  away. 

Through  mists  of  glory  pale  and  red. 

So  bitter  grew  his  heaving  sighs. 

So  mournful  dark  the  glance  he  raised ; 
I  looked  upon  him  earnestly 

And  saw  the  gentle  boy  was  crazed. 
How  fair  he  was  !    it  made  me  sad. 

And  sadder  still  my  bosom  grew. 
To  think  no  earthly  hand  could  build 

That  beautiful  ruin  up  anew. 


THE   POET.* 


Upon  a  bed  of  flowery  moss, 
With  moonbeams  falling  all  across, 
Moonbeams  chilly  and  faint  and  dim, 
(Sweet  eyes  I  ween  do  watch  for  him) 
Lieth  his  starry  dreams  among, 
The  gentlest  poet  ever  sung. 

The  wood  is  thick  —  't  is  late  in  night, 

Yet  feareth  he  no  evil  sprite. 

Nor  vexing  ghost  —  such  things  there  be 

In  many  a  poet's  destiny. 

Haply  some  wretched  fast  or  prayer. 

Pained  and  long,  hath  charmed  the  air. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


220  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Softer  than  hymenial  hymns 

The  fountains,  bubbling  o'er  their  rims, 

Wash  through  the  vernal  reeds,  and  fill 

The  hollows  :  all  beside  is  still. 

Save  the  poet's  breathing,  low  and  light. 

Watch  no  more,  lady  -r- no  more  to-night !  — 

Heavy  his  gold  locks  are  with  dew, 

Yet  by  the  pansies  mixed  with  rue 

Bitter  and  rough,  but  now  that  fell 

From  his  shut  hand,  he  sleepeth  well. 

He  sleepeth  well,  and  his  dream  is  bright 

Under  the  moonbeams  chilly  and  white. 

• 

The  night  is  dreary,  the  boy  is  fair  — 
Hath  he  been  mated  with  Despair, 
Or  crossed  in  love,  that  he  lies  alone 
With  shadows  and  moonlight  overblown  — 
Shadows  and  moonlight  chilly  and  dim  ? 
And  do  no  sweet  eyes  watch  for  him  ? 

Nay,  rather  is  his  soul  instead 

With  immortal  thirst  disquieted, 

That  oft  like  an  echo  wild  and  faint 

He  makes  to  the  hills  and  the  groves  his  plaint  ? 

That  oft  the  light  on  his  forehead  gleams. 

So  troubled  under  its  crown  of  dreams  ? 

Watch  no  more,  lady,  no  more,  I  pray, 
He  is  wrapt  in  a  lonely  power  away ! 
Sweet  boy,  so  sleeping,  might  it  be 
That  any  prayer  I  said  for  thee 
Could  answer  win  from  the  spirit  shore, 
This  were  it,  "  Let  him  wake  no  more !  " 


ASPIRATIONS. 

The  temples,  palaces  and  towers 
Of  the  old  time,  I  may  not  see ; 

Nor  'neath  my  reverend  tread,  thy  flowers 
Bend  meekly  down,  Gethsemane ! 


ASPIRATIONS.  221 

By  Jordan's  wave  I  may  not  stand, 

Nor  climb  the  hills  of  Galilee ; 
Nor  break,  with  my  poor,  sinful  hand, 

The  emblems  of  apostacy. 

Nor  pitch  my  tent  'neath  Salem's  sky, 

As  faith's  impassioned  fervor  bids ; 
Nor  hear  the  wild  bird's  startled  cry, 

From  Egypt's  awful  pyramids. 

I  have  not  stood,  and  may  not  stand. 

Where  Hermon's  dews  the  blossoms  feed ; 

Nor  where  the  flint-sparks  light  the  sand. 
Beneath  the  Arab  lancer's  steed. 

Woe  for  the  dark  thread  in  my  lot. 

That  still  hath  kept  my  feet  away 
From  pressing  toward  the  hallowed  spot, 

Where  Mary  and  the  young  child  lay. 

But  the  unhooded  soul  may  track 

Even  as  it  will,  the  dark  or  light, 
From  noontide's  sunny  splendors,  back 

To  the  dead  grandeur  of  old  night. 

And  even  I,  by  visions  led. 

The  Arctic  wastes  of  snow  may  stem  ; 
The  Tartar's  black  tents  view,  or  tread 

Thy  gardens,  oh  Jerusalem  ! 

O'er  Judah's  hills  may  travel  slow. 

Or  ponder  Kedron's  brook  beside. 
Or  pluck  the  reeds  that  overgrow 

The  tomb  which  held  the  Crucified. 

And  does  not  He,  who  planned  the  bliss 
Above  us,  hear  the  praise  that  springs 

From  every  dust-pent  chrysalis, 

That  feels  the  stirring  of  its  wings  ? 


222  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 


CHANGED. 

Alas,  the  pleasant  dew  is  dry, 
That  made  so  sweet  the  morn ; 

And  midway  in  the  walk  of  life 
He  sits  as  one  forlorn. 


I  know  the  time  when  this  was  not, 

When  at  the  close  of  day 
He  brought  his  little  boys  the  flowers 

Ploughed  up  along  his  way. 

The  ewes  that  browsed  the  daisy  buds 
Erewhile  (there  were  but  twain), 

Are  now  the  grandams  of  a  flock 
That  whiten  all  the  plain. 

The  twigs  he  set  his  marriage-day, 

Against  the  cabin  door, 
Make  shadows  in  the  summer  now. 

That  reach  across  the  floor. 

The  birds  with  red  brown  eyes,  he  sees 
Fly  round  him,  hears  the  low 

Of  pasturing  cattle,  hears  the  streams 
That  through  his  meadows  flow. 

He  sees  the  pleasant  lights  of  home. 

And  yet  as  one  whose  ills 
Seek  comfort  of  the  winds  or  stars. 

He  stays  about  the  hills. 

The  once  dear  wife  his  lingering  step 

A  joy  no  longer  yields  ; 
No  more  he  brings  his  boys  the  flowers 

Ploughed  up  along  the  fields. 


WEARINESS.  223 


WEARINESS. 


Oh,  still,  and  dumb,  and  silent  earth, 
Unlock  thy  dim  and  pulseless  arms ; 

Wandering  and  weary  from  my  birth, 
I  seek  for  refuge  from  life's  storms. 

For  a  dark  shadow  —  not  the  grave's  — 
Has  clasped  the  one  I  loved  from  me. 

And  winds  have  built  their  walls  of  waves, 
Between  us  in  the  eternal  sea. 

No  flowery,  sheltering  nook  have  I, 
Wherein  to  lay  my  weary  head  ; 

Nature's  fair  bosom  is  drawn  dry, 
While  I  am  hungry  and  unfed. 

Oh,  for  the  dream  of  long  ago, 

When  to  my  raptured  eyes  't  was  given. 
To  see,  in  this  wild  world  below, 

Only  a  lower  range  of  Heaven. 

And  still,  sometimes,  the  shadow  lifts. 
And  through  my  soul  a  lost  voice  thrills. 

What  time  the  sunset's  golden  drifts 
Come  sweeping  from  the  western  hills. 

But,  in  the  noontide's  broader  beam, 
I  see  how  well  the  shadows  lie, 

And,  turning  from  the  twilight  dream, 
I  bow  my  face  to  earth  and  cry. 

Borne  down,  and  weary  with  the  storms, 
0,  earth  !  receive  me  to  thy  breast, 

Unlock  thy  dim  and  pulseless  arms. 
And  cool  this  burning  heart  to  rest. 


224  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CART. 

EDITH  TO  HAROLD.* 

Speak  soft,  and  smile  when  you  do  speak,  I  pray, 

For  though  I  seem  as  gentle  as  the  moon 

In  her  white  bed  of  clouds,  or  thrice  as  gay 

As  any  robin  of  the  April  woods, 

You  must  not  trust  me  wholly  ;  I  am  like 

Some  mountain  creature  that  will  not  be  tamed, 

But  goes  back  to  its  nature  when  your  hand 

Caresses  it  most  fondly.     Even  a  look 

May  put  between  my  heart  and  all  the  world 

The  heavy  memory  of  my  monstrous  wrongs. 

And  make  me  hate  you,  sweetest,  with  the  rest. 

The  fatal  malady  is  in  my  blood, 

And  even  when  Death  shall  shear  away  the  thread 

That  holds  my  body  and  my  soul  in  one. 

No  flowers  but  poison  ones  will  strike  their,  roots 

In  my  earthed  ashes.     'T  is  a  dreadful  thought  — 

The  last  May  grass  on  little  Thyra's  grave 

Was  full  of  violets  —  so  bright  and  blue  ! 

Nay,  frown  not,  for  the  prohecy  is  true. 

Look  at  me  close,  and  see  if  in  my  eyes 

Are  not  the  half -reproachful,  half -mad  looks 

Of  beasts  too  sharply  goaded  —  I  do  fear 

The  loosing  of  all  fair  humanities. 

Tell  me  you  love  me,  kiss  my  cheek,  my  mouth, 

And  talk  about  that  meadow  with  the  brook 

Brimful  of  sleepy  waters,  over  which 

A  milk-white  heifer  leaned  her  silver  horns. 

Wound  bright  with  scarlet  flowers,  and  where  the  sheep 

Graze  shepherdless,  save  when  of  fairest  nights 

Some  honest  rustic  walks  and  counts  his  lambs. 

So  making  pastime  with  his  lady-love. 

The  starry  lighting  of  whose  golden  hair 

To  his  pleased  eyes  makes  all  the  meadow  shine. 

Once,  when  we  stood  before  the  eastern  gate 

Of  Hilda's  castle,  you  did  tell  it  me. 

With  your  white  fingers  combing  the  long  mane 

Of  your  brown  charger  —  dead  in  the  last  war. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  and  the  end 

Was  harmless,  happy  love.     It  gave  my  heart 

For  a  full  hour  such  pleasant  comforting, 

*  See  Sir  Bulwer  Ly  tton's  "  Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings."  —  Author's  yote. 


PARTING    WITH  A    POET.  225 

That  I  did  after  make  the  story  mine, 
And  feign  to  be  the  damsel  by  the  brook ; 
For  of  my  shepherd  I  could  be  the  queen, 
As,  sweetest,  Harold,  I  may  not  be  yours. 


PARTING   WITH   A   POET  * 

All  the  sweet  summer  that  is  gone, 
Two  paths  I  sighed  to  mark  — 

One  brightly  leading  up  and  on. 
One  downward  to  the  dark. 

No  prophecy  en  wrapt  my  heart. 

No  Vala's  gifts  were  mine ; 
Yet  knew  I  that  our  paths  must  part  — 

The  loftier  one  be  thine. 

For  not  a  soul  inspiredly  thrills, 
Whose  wing  shall  not  be  free 

To  sweep  across  the  eternal  hills. 
Like  winds  across  the  sea. 

And,  wheresoe'er  thy  lot  may  be. 

As  all  the  past  has  proved, 
Love  shall  abide  and  be  with  thee, 

For  genius  must  be  loved. 

While  I,  the  heart's  vain  yearning  stilled. 
The  heart  that  vexed  me  long, 

Essay  with  my  poor  hands  to  build 
The  silvery  walls  of  song. 

Still,  through  the  nights  of  wild  unrest, 

That  softer  joyance  bars, 
Winding  about  my  vacant  breast 

The  tresses  of  the  stars. 

While  at  the  base  of  heights  sublime, 

Dim  thoughts  forevermore 
Lie  moaning,  like  the  waves  of  time 

Along  the  immortal  shore. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


226  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 


THE   RECLAIMING   OF   THE   ANGEL  * 

Oh  smiling  land  of  the  sunset, 

How  my  heart  to  thy  beauty  thrills  — 
Veiled  dimly  to-day  with  the  shadow 

Of  the  greenest  of  all  thy  hills ! 
Where  daisies  lean  to  the  sunshine, 

And  the  winds  a  plowing  go, 
And  break  into  shining  furrows 

The  mists  in  the  vale  below ; 
Where  the  willows  hang  out  their  tassels, 

With  the  dews  all  white  and  cold, 
Strung  over  their  wands  so  limber, 

Like  pearls  upon  chords  of  gold ; 
Where  in  milky  hedges  of  hawthorn 

The  red-winged  thrushes  sing. 
And  the  wild  vine,  bright  and  flaunting 

Twines  many  a  scarlet  ring ; 
Where,  under  the  ripened  billows 

Of  the  silver-flowing  rye. 
We  ran  in  and  out  with  the  zephyrs  — 

My  sunny-haired  brother  and  I. 

Oh,  when  the  green  kirtle  of  May  time. 

Again  over  the  hill-tops  is  blown, 
I  shall  walk  the  wild  paths  of  the  forest 

And  climb  the  steep  headlands  alone  — 
Pausing  not  where  the  slopes  of  the  meadows 

Are  yellow  with  cowslip  beds. 
Nor  where,  by  the  wall  of  the  garden, 

The  hollyhocks  lift  their  bright  heads. 
In  hollows  that  dimple  the  hill-sides, 

Our  feet  till  the  sunset  had  been. 
Where  pinks  with  their  spikes  of  red  blossoms, 

Hedged  beds  of  blue  violets  in. 
While  to  the  warm  lip  of  the  sunbeam 

The  cheek  of  the  blush  rose  inclined, 
And  the  pansy's  soft  bosom  was  flushed  with 

The  murmurous  love  of  the  wind. 

♦  Printed  in  "  Lyra  "  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1855.    The  revision  is  given 
here. 


ADELYN.  227 

But  when  'neath  the  heavy  tresses 

That  swept  o'er  the  dying  day, 
The  star  of  the  eve  like  a  h)ver 

AVas  hiding  his  bhishes  away, 
As  we  came  to  a  mournful  river 

That  flowed  to  a  lovely  shore, 
"  Oh,  sister,"  he  said,  "I  am  weary  — 

I  cannot  go  back  any  more !  " 
And  seeing  that  round,  about  him 

The  wings  of  the  angels  shone  — 
I  parted  the  locks  from  his  forehead 

Atid  kissed  him  and  left  him  alone. 


ADELYN. 


Come,  comb  my  hair,  good  Hepsiba, 

The  sun  is  going  down. 
And  I  within  an  hour  must  wear 

My  pretty  wedding-gown ! 

'T  is  bleached  white  upon  the  grass, 

The  rainy  grass  of  May, 
Go  bring  it,  my  good  Hepsiba, 

It  is  my  wedding-day. 

And  Hepsiba  looks  out  and  sees, 

Behind  the  windy  hill. 
The  cloudy  sun  go  down,  and  hastes 

To  do  the  bride's  sweet  will. 

And  from  her  sick-bed  Adelyn 

Was  softly  lifted  down. 
To  have  her  black  hair  combed  so  smooth, 

And  wear  her  wedding-gown. 

Oh  !  never  o'er  the  windy  hills 
Came  clouds  so  fast  and  dread, 

And  never  beat  so  wild  a  rain 
Above  a  marriage-bed. 


228  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Unpastured  o'er  the  dry,  brown  sands, 

The  noisy  billows  crept, 
The  cattle  lowed,  but  Adelyn 

Through  all  the  tumult  slept. 

XJpon  her  sweet  shut  eyes  they  laid 

The  roses  from  her  hair, 
And  when  the  bridegroom  kissed  her  cheek, 

She  never  looked  so  fair. 

At  morning,  he  who  came  to  meet 

The  bridal  train  so  brave. 
Hung  willows  in  his  boat,  and  rowed 

A  corse  across  the  wave. 


MADELA.* 


"Oh,  ray  dear  one  !  oh,  my  lover! 

Comes  no  faintest  sound  to  you, 
As  I  call  your  sweet  words  over, 

All  the  weary  night-time  through ! 
Drearily  the  rain  keeps  falling  — 

I  can  hear  it  on  the  pane ; 
Oh,  he  cannot  hear  my  calling  — 

He  will  never  come  again  ! " 
So  a  pale  one,  lowly  lying 

On  her  sick  bed,  often  cried  — 
"  Come,  my  dear  one,  I  am  dying ! " 

But  no  lover's  voice  replied. 

"When  the  morning  light  is  shining 

Over  all  the  eastern  hills. 
Thou,  whose  heart  is  still  divining 

Every  wish  in  mine  that  thrills  — 
If  he  come,  and  I  am  dying, 

If  my  hands  be  cold  as  clay. 
And  my  lips  make  no  replying 

To  the  wild  words  he  will  say. 
As  he  fondly  bends  above  me, 

Just  as  you  are  bending  now, 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


THE  BROKEN  HOUSEHOLD.  229 

Saying  how  he  used  to  love  me, 

Pressing  kisses  on  my  brow  — 
Take  this  ringlet  ere  from  twining 

Dampened  in  that  dew  so  near; 
He  has  often  praised  its  shining — 

Will  he  when  I  cannot  hear  ? 
Give  it  softly  to  his  keeping, 

Saying,  as  I  would  have  said, 
'Go  not  through  the  world  a-weeping 

For  the  dear  one  who  is  dead ; ' 
And,  as  you  the  shroud  upgather, 

That  shall  hide  me  from  his  eyes, 
Tell  him  of  the  pitying  Father  — 

Of  the  love  that  never  dies." 

Through  the  eastern  clouds  the  amber, 

Burning,  tells  the  night-time  past ! 
Dark  and  silent  is  her  chamber  — 

She  is  sleeping  well  at  last ! 
Is  't  the  white  hand  of  her  lover 

Puts  her  curtain's  fold  away  ? 
Is  it  he  that  bends  above  her. 

Saying,  "  Dear  one,  wake,  't  is  day  !  " 
No ;  the  wind,  despite  Death's  warning, 

'T  is,  that  in  her  curtain  stirs. 
And  the  blue  eyes  are  the  morning's. 

That  are  bending  down  to  her's. 
Lay  the  hands,  for  love's  sake  lifted 

Oft  in  prayer,  together  bound. 
While  the  unheeded  ringlet  drifted 

Lightly,  brightly,  to  the  ground. 


THE  BROKEN   HOUSEHOLD.* 

Vainly,  vainly  memory  seeks, 

Round  our  father's  knee, 
Laughing  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks 

Where  they  used  to  be : 
Of  the  circle  once  so  wide. 

Three  are  wanderers,  three  have  died. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1S55. 


230  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

Golden-haired  and  dewy-eyed, 
Prattling  all  the  day, 

Was  the  baby,  first  that  died ; 
Oh,  't  was  hard  to  lay 

Dimpled  hand  and  cheek  of  snow 
In  the  grave  so  dark  and  low. 

Smiling  back  on  all  who  smiled, 
Ne'er  by  sorrow  thralled, 

Half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Was  the  next  one  called  : 

Then  a  grave  more  deep  and  wide 
Made  they  by  the  baby's  side. 

When  or  where  the  other  died 
Only  Heaven  can  tell ; 

Treading  manhood's  path  of  pride 
Was  he  when  he  fell ; 

Haply  thistles,  blue  and  red. 
Bloom  about  his  lonely  bed. 

I  am  for  the  living  three 

Only  left  to  pray  ; 
Two  are  on  the  stormy  sea; 

Farther  still  than  they. 
Wanders  one,  his  young  heart  dim 
Oftenest,  most  I  pray  for  him. 

Whatsoe'er  they  do  or  dare, 
Wheresoe'er  they  roam. 

Have  them,  Father,  in  Thy  care, 
Guide  them  safely  home ; 

Home,  oh,  Father,  in  the  sky. 

Where  none  wander  and  none  die. 


PARTING   SONG  * 

Behind  their  cloudy  curtains, 
Over  sunset's  crimson  sea. 

Like  fires  along  a  battle  field, 
Intensely,  mournfully, 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


PARTING    SONG.  231 

The  radiant  stars  are  burning 
That  will  burn  no  more  for  me. 

Ere  on  yon  path  of  glory, 

Which  still  the  daylight  warms, 
Walks  silently  the  midnight, 

With  the  silence  in  her  arms, 
I  shall  be  where  longings  trouble  not, 

Nor  haunting  fear  alarms. 

Nay,  weep  not,  gentlest,  dearest. 

When  joy  should  most  abound, 
That  the  dewy,  tender  clasping 

Of  thy  arms  must  be  unwound ; 
We  have  journeyed  long  together 

In  life's  wilderness  profound. 

Like  the  shining  threads  of  silver 
W^hich  the  showers  of  summer  leave, 

When  to  webs  of  beauty  woven 
By  the  golden  loom  of  eve. 

Is  the  path  that  lies  before  me  now  — 
Then,  dear  one,  do  not  grieve. 

Mortality  has  been  to  me 

A  wheel  of  pain,  at  best, 
And  I  sink,  although  thy  gentle  love 

Has  soothed  and  almost  blest, 
As  a  pilgrim  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  sepulchre,  to  rest. 

Not  when  the  morn  is  glowing. 

Like  a  banner  o'er  the  brave. 
Nor  when  the  world  is  bathing 

In  the  noontide's  amber  wave, 
Will  I  come,  oh  Love,  to  meet  thee 

From  the  chamber  of  the  srrave. 


&' 


But  through  the  silver  columns 
Leaning  earthward  from  the  arch, 

When  the  pale  and  solemn  army 
Of  the  night  is  on  the  march, 


232  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

I  will  glide,  oh  Love,  to  meet  thee, 
Froin  the  shadow  of  the  larch. 

As  the  poet's  bosom  trembles 
With  some  awful  melody. 

Till  he  hears  the  dark  procession 
Of  the  ages  sweeping  by, 

Lo!  my  heart  is  trembling,  beating, 
To  the  music  of  the  sky. 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   WOE.* 

Dimly  the  shadows  stretch  across  the  seas, 

With  glistening  frost  the  window  pane  is  white ; 

And  the  blind  winds  go  moaning  through  the  trees  — 
Oh  !  't  is  a  mournful  night ! 

Under  the  rafters,  where,  in  summer's  heat, 
The  twittering  swallow  hung  her  nest  of  clay, 

The  new-milked  heifer,  sheltered  from  the  sleet, 
Chews  the  sweet-scented  hay. 

On  southern  slopes,  hard  by  the  leafy  wold. 

Where  the  stray  sunbeams  all  the  day  kept  warm, 

Instinct  is  shepherding  the  harmless  fold 
From  the  ice-bearded  storm. 

The  watch-dog,  shivering  couchant  on  the  sill. 
Watches  the  moon,  slow  sailing  up  the  sky. 

Nor  answers,  calling  from  the  churchyard  hill, 
The  owlet's  frequent  cry. 

In  the  dim  grass  the  little  flowers  are  dead. 
No  more  his  song  the  grasshopper  awakes, 

And  the  pale  silver  of  the  spider's  thread. 
No  wanton  wild-bird  breaks. 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra"  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1855.     The  revision  is 
given  here. 


A    DREAM   UNTOLD.  233 

Yet  does  my  soul,  whose  flights  have  sometimes  stirred 

The  cloud  that  curtains  back  eternity, 
Lie  wailing  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bird, 

Driven  far  out  at  sea. 

On  such  a  night  my  heart  was  wed  to  pain, 
And  joy  along  its  surface  can  but  gleam. 

Like  the  red  threads  of  morning's  fiery  skein 
Along  the  frozen  stream. 


A   DEEAM   UNTOLD.* 

Bexeath  the  yellow  hair  of  May 
The  blushing  flowers  together  lay. 
The  winds  along  the  bending  lea, 
Kept  flowing,  flowing  like  a  sea 

That  could  not  rest, 
When  first  a  maid  with  tresses  brown. 
And  blue  eyes  softly  drooping  down. 
Sat  in  her  chamber  high  and  lone. 
Locking  a  sweet  dream,  all  her  own. 

Within  her  breast. 

The  elms  around  the  homestead  low 
All  night  went  swaying  to  and  fro, 
And  the  young  summer's  silver  rain 
Kept  beating  on  the  window  pane,  ■ 

So  soft  and  low. 
It  could  not  trouble  the  fair  maid 
Who  tremblingly  and  half  afraid 
Lay  gazing  on  the  village  lights, 
That  glimmered  o'er  the  neighboring  heights. 

In  sleepless  woe. 

The  summer's  tender  glow  is  fled. 
The  early  budding  flowers  are  dead, 
But  others,  with  their  leaves  scarce  paled, 
And  their  flushed  bosoms  all  unveiled. 
In  bloom  remain ; 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1S55. 


234  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

The  hills  are  white  with  ripened  rye, 
The  quails  from  out  the  meadows  fly ; 
The  mower's  whistling,  blithely  gay, 
Makes  answer  to  the  milkmaid's  lay, 
In  vain  —  in  vain  ! 


'T  is  one  of  autumn's  lonesome  eves, 
And  eddying  drifts  of  withered  leaves 
Are  scattered  in  the  woods  behind. 
By  the  damp  fingers  of  the  wind ; 

But  hope  dies  not, 
And  happy  maids  and  youths  are  seen 
Together  straying  on  the  green, 
While  trembling  hand  and  blushing  cheek 
Tell  better  far  than  words  can  speak. 

Each  other's  thought. 

Winter  is  come  —  the  homestead  low 
Is  whitened  by  the  falling  snow; 
In  the  warm  hearth  the  cricket  cries, 
And  the  storm-shaken  bough  replies ; 

The  watch-dog's  bay 
Is  answered  from  the  neighboring  hill  — 
"  'T  is  very  dark,  the  night  is  chill," 
Is  by  the  pale  lips  faintly  said. 
Of  her  beside  whose  dying  bed 

They  kneel  to  pray. 

Morning  is  up  —  her  wing  of  fire 
Is  shivering  o'er  the  village  spire. 
And  in  the  churchyard  down  below 
Shining  along  the  mounds  of  snow 

Serenely  bright ; 
The  maiden  with  the  hair  so  brown, 
And  blue  eyes  softly  drooping  down, 
Her  dream,  whate'er  it  was,  unknown, 
Shall  lie  beneath  the  cross  of  stone, 

Ere  close  of  night. 


THE   CONVICT.  235 


THE   CONVICT  * 

The  first  of  the  September  eves 

Sunk  its  red  basement  in  the  sea, 
And  like  swart  reapers,  bearing  sheaves, 

Dim  shadows  thronged  immensity. 
Then  from  his  ancient  kingdom,  Night 

Wooing  the  tender  Twiliglit,  came. 
And  from  her  tent  of  soft  blue  light, 

Bore  her  away,  a  bride  of  flame. 

Pushing  aside  her  golden  hair. 

And  listening  to  the  Autumn's  tread, 
Along  the  hill-tops,  bleak  and  bare. 

Went  Summer,  burying  her  dead ; 
The  frolic  winds,  out-laughing  loud, 

Played  with  the  thistle's  silver  beard, 
And  drifting  seaward  like  a  cloud. 

Slowly  the  wild-birds  disappeared. 

Upon  a  hill  with  mosses  brown, 

Beneath  the  blue  roof  of  the  sky, 
As  the  dim  day  w^ent  sadly  down. 

Stood  all  the  friend  I  had,  and  I  — 
Watching  the  sea-mist  of  the  strand 

Wave  to  and  fro  in  Evening's  breath, 
Like  the  pale  gleaming  of  the  hand 

That  beckons  from  the  shore  of  Death, 
Talking  of  days  of  gladness  flown. 

Of  Sorrow's  great  o'erwhelming  waves, 
Of  friends  loved  well  as  they  were  known. 

Now  sleeping  in  the  voiceless  graves  ; 
And  as  our  thoughts  o'erswept  the  past, 

Like  stars  that  through  the  darkness  move. 
Our  hearts  grew  softer,  and  at  last 

We  talked  of  friendship,  talked  of  love. 
Then,  as  the  long  and  level  reach 

Back  to  our  homestead  slow  we  trod. 
We  gave  our  fond  pure  pledges  each, 

Of  truth  unto  ourselves  and  God. 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1S55. 


236  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Forth  to  life's  conflict  and  its  care, 

Doomed  wert  thou,  oh  my  friend,  to  go, 
Leaving  me  only  hope  and  prayer 

To  shelter  my  poor  heart  from  woe. 
"  A  little  year,  and  we  shall  meet ! " 

Still  at  my  heart  that  whisper  thrills  — 
The  spring-shower  is  not  half  so  sweet. 

Covering  with  violets  all  the  hills. 

Dimly  the  days  sped,  one  by  one. 

Slowly  the  weeks  and  months  went  round, 
Until  again  September's  sun 

Lighted  the  hill  with  moss  embrowned. 
That  night  we  met  —  my  friend  and  I  — 

Not  as  the  last  year  saw  us  part : 
He  as  a  convict  doomed  to  die, 

I  with  a  bleeding,  breaking  heart  — 
Not  in  our  homestead,  low  and  old. 

Nor  under  Evening's  roof  of  stars. 
But  where  the  earth  was  damp  and  cold, 

And  the  light  struggled  through  the  bars. 

Others  might  mock  him,  or  disown. 

With  lying  tongue :  my  place  was  there, 
And  as  I  bore  him  to  the  throne 

Upon  the  pleading  arms  of  prayer, 
He  told  me  how  Temptation's  hand 

Pressed  the  red  wine-cup  to  his  lip. 
Leaving  him  powerless  to  withstand 

As  the  storm  leaves  the  sinking  ship ; 
And  how,  all  blind  to  evil  then, 

Down  from  the  way  of  life  he  trod, 
Sinning  against  his  fellow-men  — 

Reviling  the  dear  name  of  God. 


SICK  AND   IN  PRISON. 

Wildly  falls  the  night  around  me. 
Chains  I  cannot  break  have  bound  me, 
Spirits  unrebuked,  undriven 
Erom  before  me,  darken  heaven; 
Creeds  bewilder,  and  the  saying 
Unfelt  prayers,  makes  need  of  praying. 


LONGINGS.  237 

In  this  bitter  anguish  lying, 

Only  thou  wilt  hear  my  crying  — 

Thou,  whose  hands  wash  white  the  erring 

As  the  wool  is  at  the  shearing ; 

Not  with  dulcimer  or  psalter, 

But  with  tears,  I  seek  thy  altar. 

Feet  that  trod  the  mount  so  weary, 
Eyes  that  pitying  looked  on  Mary, 
Hands  that  brought  the  Father's  blessing 
Heads  of  little  children  pressing. 
Voice  that  said,  "  Behold  thy  brother," 
Lo,  I  seek  ye  and  none  other. 

Look,  oh  gentlest  eyes  of  pity 
Out  of  Zion,  the  glorious  city; 
Speak,  oh  voice  of  mercy,  sweetly ; 
Hide  me,  hands  of  love,  completely ; 
Sick,  in  prison,  lying  lonely, 
Ye  can  lift  me  up,  ye  only. 

In  my  hot  brow  soothe  the  aching, 
In  my  sad  heart  stay  the  breaking, 
On  my  lips  the  murmur  trembling. 
Change  to  praises  undissembling ; 
Make  me  wise  as  the  evangels, 
Clothe  me  with  the  wings  of  angels. 

Power  that  made  the  few  loaves  many, 
Power  that  blessed  the  wine  at  Cana, 
Power  that  said  to  Lazarus,  "  Waken  ! " 
Leave,  oh  leave  me  not  forsaken ! 
Sick  and  hungry,  and  in  prison, 
Save  me  Crucified  and  Eisen ! 


LONGINGS. 


I  AM  weary  of  the  mystery 

Of  life  and  death,  and  long  to  see 

Into  the  great  eternity : 


238  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

The  locked  hands  loosed,  the  feet  untied, 
The  blank  eyes  re-illumined, 
The  senseless  ashes  deified. 

For  as  the  ages  come  and  go, 
The  tides  of  being  ever  flow. 
From  light  to  darkness,  ending  so. 

A  little  gladness  for  the  birth, 

For  youth  a  little  soberer  mirth. 

For  age,  a  looking  toward  the  earth  — 

A  listening  for  the  spirit's  call, 

A  reaching  up  the  smooth,  steep  wall 

Of  the  close  grave  —  and  this  is  all. 

Hoping,  we  find  that  hope  is  vain ; 
Are  pleased,  and  pleasure  ends  in  pain ; 
Loving,  we  win  no  love  again. 

We  bring  our  sorrow,  a  wild  weight, 

Praying  inexorable  fate 

To  comfort  us,  and  when  we  wait  — 

Winning  no  answer  to  the  quest. 
Madly  with  angels  we  contest, 
Asking  if  that  which  is,  is  best. 

So  life  wears  out,  and  so  the  din 

Goes  on,  and  other  lives  begin 

The  same  as  though  we  had  not  been. 

True,  here  and  there  in  time's  dead  mould. 

There  stands  some  obelisk  of  gold, 

For  which,  God  knoweth,  peace  was  sold. 

For  they  must  meet  their  fellows'  frown. 
And  wear  on  throbbing  brows  the  crown. 
O'er  whom  death's  curtain  shuts  not  down. 

Others  for  fame  may  do  and  dare. 
For  me  it  seems  enough  to  bear 
The  ills  of  being  while  we  are : 


REMORSE.  239 

Without  the  strife,  to  leave  behind 
A  name  with  laurels  intertwined, 
To  be  of  evil  tongues  maligned. 

And  had  I  power  to  choose,  to-day, 
Some  good  to  help  me  on  my  way, 
I  truly  think  that  I  would  say  — 

"Oh  thou  who  gavest  me  mortal  breath. 
And  hold'st  me  here  'twixt  life  and  death, 
Double  the  measure  of  my  faith  !  " 


REMORSE. 


Break  sweetly,  red  morning, 

I  shudder  with  fear, 
Eor  dreaming  at  midnight 

My  darling,  my  dear. 
My  Mary,  my  lost  loving  Mary,  was  here. 

Soft  smoothing  my  pillow. 

Soft  soothing  my  woe. 
She  folded  the  coverlid. 

Dainty  as  snow, 
About  my  chill  bosom,  and  kneeling  so  slow. 

Meek  clasped  she  together 

Her  hands,  lily  white. 
While  the  flow  of  her  tresses, 

All  golden  with  light 
Of  the  world  where  there  never  is  any  more  night. 

Fell  over  my  forehead. 

And  bathed  it  like  dew. 
As  the  pale  mortal  sorrow 

In  lifetime  she  knew. 
Was  mixed  with  the  fond  whisper,  "  Pray  I  for  you." 

And  therefore  this  tremulous 

Shudder  of  pain 
Shakes  my  desolate  bosom ; 
This  agonized  rain 
Fills  my  eyes,  that  I  thought  not  to  vex  me  again. 


240  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Break  sweetly,  red  morning, 

Break  sweetly,  I  pray  ; 
In  the  darkness  of  midnight 

As  moaning  I  lay. 
Fled  this  vision,  this  beautiful  vision  away. 

On  a  hill  where  the  larches 

Trail  low  to  the  ground. 
Till  the  moon  lights  but  faintly 

The  headstones  around. 
Fast  asleep  lieth  Mary  beneath  the  hushed  mound. 

In  her  white  shroud  she  lieth 

Beneath  the  cold  stone  — 
My  life  was  the  shadow 

That  darkened  her  own, 
And  my  death-crown  to-night  is  of  thorns  I  have  sown. 


DESPAIR* 


Come,  most  melancholy  maid, 
From  thy  tent  of  woeful  shade. 
And  with  hemlock,  sere  and  brown, 
Keep  the  struggling  daylight  down. 
From  thy  pale  unsmiling  brow 
Wind  the  heavy  tresses  now, 
And  in  whispers  sad  and  low 
I  will  tell  thee  all  my  woe. 

The  path  watched  and  guarded  most, 
By  an  evil  star  is  crossed. 
And  a  dear  one  lies  to-day 
Sick,  in  prison,  far  away  — 
Naked,  famished,  suffering  wrong; 
Dreamed  I  of  him  all  night  long. 
And  each  dreary  wind  o'erblown 
Seemed  an  echo  of  his  moan. 

When  he  left  me,  long  ago. 

Brown  locks,  touched  of  summer^s  glow, 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


RESPITE.  241 

Beautified  his  boyish  brow  — 
Thinned  and  faded  are  they  now. 

Seeing  clouds  like  oxen  stray 
Through  the  azure  fields  all  day, 
And  the  lengthening  sunbeams  lie 
Like  bright  furrows  of  the  sky, 
Underneath  an  oaken  roof 
We  were  sitting,  sorrow-proof — 
Cheating  I  with  tales  the  hours. 
Heaping  he  my  lap  with  flowers. 

As  yon  elm,  the  ivied  one. 
Came  between  us  and  the  sun. 
And  the  lambs  went  toward  the  fold, 
I  remember  that  I  told. 
How  the  robin  and  the  wren, 
Friendless  and  unburied  men 
Cover  with  the  leaves  of  flowers 
From  the  twilight's  chilly  hours. 

Now  along  the  level  snow 
Glistening  the  frost  specks  glow, 
And  the  trees  stand  high  and  bare, 
Shivering  in  the  bitter  air 
—  Come,  oh  melancholy  maid. 
From  thy  tent  of  woeful  shade, 
That  in  whispers,  sad  and  low, 
I  may  tell  thee  all  my  woe. 


EESPITE* 


Leave  me,  dear  one,  to  my  slumber. 
Daylight's  faded  glow  is  gone ; 

In  the  red  light  of  the  morning 
I  must  rise  and  journey  on. 

I  am  weary,  oh,  how  weary  ! 

And  would  rest  a  little  while ; 
Let  your  kind  looks  be  my  blessing, 

And  your  last  "  Good-night "  a  smile. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1865. 


242  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

We  have  journeyed  up  together, 

Through  the  pleasant  day-time  flown ; 

Now  my  feet  have  pressed  life's  summit, 
And  my  pathway  lies  alone. 

And,  my  dear  ones,  do  not  call  me, 
Should  you  haply  be  awake, 

When  across  the  eastern  hill-tops 
Presently  the  day  shall  break. 

For,  while  yet  the  stars  are  lying 
In  the  gray  lap  of  the  dawn, 

On  my  long  and  solemn  journey 
I  shall  be  awake  and  gone ; 

Far  from  mortal  pain  and  sorrow, 
And  from  passion's  stormy  swell, 

Knocking  at  the  golden  gateway 
Of  the  eternal  citadel. 

Therefore,  dear  ones,  let  me  slumber  — 
Faded  is  the  day  and  gone ; 

And  with  morning's  early  splendor, 
I  must  rise  and  journey  on. 


OF   ONE   DYING.* 

In  the  blue  middle  heavens  of  June 

The  sun  was  burning  bright, 
What  time  we  parted  —  now !  alas, 

'T  is  winter-time  and  night. 
The  swart  November  long  ago. 

With  troops  of  gloomy  hours. 
Went  folding  the  October's  tents 

Of  misty  gold,  like  flowers. 

The  wind  hangs  moaning  on  the  pane. 

The  cricket  tries  to  sing. 
And  a  voice  tells  me  all  the  while. 

It  never  will  be  spring ; 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra  "  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1855.    The  revision  is  given 
here. 


MAY    VERSES.  243 

It  never  will  be  spring  to  her, 

For  in  the  west  wind's  How, 
I  hear  a  sound  that  seems  to  me 

Like  digging  in  the  snow. 

She  will  not  have  to  lay  away 

The  baby  from  her  knees  — 
The  wild  birds  sung  his  lullaby 

Last  Slimmer  in  the  trees  ; 
The  cedars  and  the  cypresses. 

That  in  the  churchyard  grow  — 
But  little  Alice  will  be  left  — 

How  shall  we  make  her  know, 

When  she  shall  see  the  pallid  brow, 

The  shroud  about  the  dead, 
That  the  beloved  one  is  in 

The  azure  overhead  ? 
For  scarcely  by  the  open  grave, 

Have  we  of  larger  light 
And  clearer  faith,  the  strength  to  shape 

The  spirit's  upward  flight. 


MAY  yEESES.=* 

Do  you  hear  the  wild  birds  calling  — 
Do  you  hear  them,  oh  my  heart  ? 

Do  you  see  the  blue  air  falling 
From  their  rushing  wings  apart  ? 

With  young  mosses  they  are  flocking, 
For  they  hear  the  laughing  breeze. 

With  dewy  fingers  rocking 

Their  light  cradles  in  the  trees ! 

Within  Nature's  bosom  holden. 
Till  the  wintry  storms  were  done, 

Little  violets,  white  and  golden, 
Now  are  leaning  to  the  sun. 

••  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


244  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

With  its  stars  the  box  is  florid, 

And  the  wind-flower,  sweet  to  view, 

Hath  uncovered  its  pale  forehead 
To  the  kisses  of  the  dew. 

While  thousand  blossoms  tender, 
As  coquettishly  as  they, 

Are  sunning  their  wild  splendor 
In  the  blue  eyes  of  the  May  ! 

In  the  water  softly  dimpled  — 
In  the  flower-enameled  sod  — 

How  beautifully  exampled 
Is  the  providence  of  God  ! 

From  the  insect's  little  story 
To  the  fartherest  star  above, 

All  are  waves  of  glory,  glory. 
In  the  ocean  of  his  love  ! 


WURTHA* 


Through  the  autumn's  mists  so  red 
Shot  the  slim  and  golden  stocks 

Of  the  ripe  corn  ;  Wurtha  said, 
"  Let  us  cut  them  for  our  flocks." 

Answered  I,  "  When  morning  leaves 
Her  bright  footprints  on  the  sea. 

As  I  cut  and  bind  the  sheaves, 
Wurtha,  thou  shalt  glean  for  me." 

"  Nay,  the  full  moon  shines  so  bright 

All  along  the  vale  below, 
I  could  count  our  flocks  to-night ; 

Haco,  let  us  rise  and  go. 
For  when  bright  the  risen  morn 

Leaves  her  footprints  on  the  sea. 
Thou  may'st  cut  and  bind  the  corn, 

But  I  cannot  glean  for  thee." 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


THE   SHEPHERDESS.  245 

And  as  I  my  reed  so  light 

Blowing,  sat,  her  fears  to  calm, 
Said  she,  "  Haco,  yesternight 

In  my  dream  I  missed  a  lamb, 
And  as  down  the  misty  vale 

Went  I  pining  for  the  lost, 
Something  shadowy  and  pale, 

Phantom-like,  my  pathway  crossed, 
Saying,  '  In  a  chilly  bed. 

Low  and  dark,  but  full  of  peace, 
For  your  coming,  softly  spread, 

Is  the  dead  lamb's  snowy  fleece.'  '^ 

Passed  the  sweetest  of  all  eves  — 

Morn  was  breaking,  for  our  flocks : 
"  Let  us  go  and  bind  to  sheaves, 

All  the  slim  and  golden  stocks ; 
Wake,  my  Wurtha,  wake"  —  but  still 

Were  her  lips  as  still  could  be. 
And  her  folded  hands  too  chill 

Ever  more  to  glean  for  me. 


THE  SHEPHERDESS.* 

Sat  we  on  the  mossy  rocks 

In  the  twilight,  long  ago, 
I  and  Ulna  keeping  flocks  — 

Elocks  with  fleeces  white  as  snow. 
Beauty  smiled  along  the  sky  ; 

Beauty  shone  along  the  sea ; 
"  Ulna,  Ulna,"  whispered  I, 

"  This  is  all  for  you  and  me !  '^ 

Brushing  back  my  heavy  locks. 

Said  he,  not,  alas !  in  glee, 
"Art  content  in  keeping  flocks 

With  a' shepherd  boy  like  me  ?  "  - 
Shone  the  moon  so  softly  white 

Down  upon  the  mossy  rocks, 
Covering  sweetly  with  her  light 

Me  and  Ulna,  and  our  flocks. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


246  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Running  wild  about  our  feet 

Were  the  blushing  summer  flowers  — 
"  Ulna,"  said  I,  "  what  is  sweet 

In  this  world  that  is  not  ours  ?  " 
Thrice  he  kissed  my  cheek,  and  sighed, 

These  are  dreary  rocks  and  cold  — 
Oh,  the  world  is  very  wide, 

And  I  weary  of  my  fold ! 

Now  a  thousand  oxen  stray 

That  are  Ulna's,  down  the  moor, 
And  great  ships  their  anchors  weigh, 

Freighted  with  his  priceless  ore. 
But  my  tears  will  sometimes  flow, 

Thinking  of  the  mossy  rocks 
Where  we  sat,  so  long  ago, 

I  and  Ulna,  keeping  flocks. 


WASHING   THE   SHEEP. 

"  Oh,  Jesse,  go  and  wash  the  sheep  — 

The  hills  are  white  with  May, 
The  mossy  brook  is  brimming  full  — 

'T  is  shearing  time  to-day. 
And  I  will  bring  my  spinning-wheel, 

And  tie  the  bands  anew. 
And  when  to-night,  the  lilac  buds 

Break  open  with  the  dew, 
I  '11  come  and  meet  you,  as  I  used. 

The  summer  eves  ago. 
When  first  you  loved  me,  Jesse  dear  — 

Or  when  you  told  me  so." 

^T  was  Emily,  the  fair  young  wife 

Of  Jesse  thus  who  spake  ; 
And,  kissing  her,  he  straight  became 

A  shepherd  for  her  sake. 
She  heard  him  singing  to  the  sheep, 

Across  the  hills,  all  day, 


« 

GEORGE   BURROUGHS.  247 

As  one  by  one  he  plunged  them  in 

The  rainy  brook  of  May. 
But  ere  the  eve,  the  shadows  fell, 

The  sun  in  clouds  was  gone, 
And  dreary  through  the  western  woods, 

The  windy  night  came  on. 

Her  gold  curls  beaten  straight  beneath 

The  rain  that  wildly  drove, 
Sad  Emily  along  the  hills 

Went  calling  to  her  love; 
And  calling  by  the  brooks  of  May, 

The  grassy  brooks  o'erfull, 
What  sees  she  'mid  the  new-washed  lambs, 

Gleam  whiter  than  their  wool  ? 
Oh  never  winter  frost,  nor  ice, 

So  filled  her  heart  with  dread ; 
And  never  kissed  she  living  love 

As  then  she  kissed  the  dead ! 


GEORGE   BURROUGHS.* 

Oh,  dark  as  the  creeping  of  shadows, 

At  night,  o'er  the  burial  hill. 
When  the  pulse  in  the  stony  artery 

Of  the  bosom  of  earth  is  still  — 
When  the  sky,  through  its  frosty  curtain. 

Shows  the  glitter  of  many  a  lamp, 
Burning  in  brightness  and  stillness. 

Like  the  fire  of  a  far-off  camp  — 
Must  have  been  the  thoughts  of  the  martyr. 

Of  the  jeers  and  the  taunting  scorn. 
And  the  cunning  trap  of  the  gallows. 

That  waited  his  feet  at  morn, 

*  No  purer  hearts  or  more  heroic  spirits  ever  perished  at  the  stake  than  some 
crushed  and  broken  on  the  wheel  of  bigotry  during  the  Puritan  Eeign  of  Terror. 
Among  them  I  would  instance  the  Rev.  George  Burroughs,  who  prayed  with  and 
for  his  repentant  accuser  the  day  previous  to  his  e.xecution,  and  whose  conviction 
demonstrated  the  righteousness  of  God  to  the  Rev.  Cotton  Mather.  After  his 
execution,  to  which  he  was  conveyed  in  an  open  cart,  Mr.  Burroughs  was  strijiped 
of  his  clothing,  dragged  by  the  hangman's  rope  to  a  rocky  excavation,  in  which, 
being  thrown  and  trampled  on  by  the  mob,  he  was  finally  left  partly  uncovered. 
—  Author's  Note. 


248  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

As,  down  in  his  lonesome  dungeon, 
The  hours  trooped  silent  and  slow. 

Like  sentinels  through  the  thick  darkness, 
Hard  by  the  tents  of  the  foe. 

Could  he  hear  the  voices  of  music 

Which  thrilled  that  deep  heart  of  gloom  ? 
Or  see  the  sorrowful  beauty 

That  meekly  leaned  by  the  tomb  ? 
Could  he  note  in  the  cold  and  thin  shadow 

That  swept  through  his  prison  bars. 
The  white  hand  of  the  pure  seraph 

That  beckoned  him  to  the  stars. 
As,  roused  to  the  stony  rattle 

Of  the  hangman's  open  cart. 
He  smothered,  till  only  God  heard  it, 

The  piercing  cry  of  his  heart  ? 

Can  Christ's  mercy  wash  back  to  whiteness 

The  feet  his  raiment  that  trod. 
Whose  soul  from  that  dark  persecution, 

Went  up  the  bosom  of  God  ? 
Hath  he  forgiveness,  who  shouted, 

"  Righteously  do  ye,  and  well. 
To  quench  in  blood,  hot  and  smoking. 

This  firebrand,  which  is  of  hell  ?  " 

Over  fields  moistened  thus  darkly 
Wave  harvests  of  tolerance  now — 

But  the  tombstones  of  the  old  martyrs 
Sharpened  the  share  of  the  plough ! 


LUTHEE. 


Oh  ages  !  add  with  reverend  light 
New  splendors  to  the  name  of  him 

Who  fought  for  conscience  a  good  fight, 
And  sung  for  truth  the  morning  hymn! 

Who,  when  old  sanctions  like  a  flood 
Drove  wrathful  on,  to  work  his  fall. 

Put  forth  his  single  hand  and  stood 
Sublimer,  mightier  than  they  all. 


0 

THE  EVENING    WALK.  249 

Stood,  from  all  precedent  apart, 

The  double  challenge  to  prefer  — 
A  conflict  with  his  own  weak  heart 

As  well  as  with  the  powers  that  were. 

Who  spake,  and,  speaking,  clave  in  twain 

The  mocking  symbols  in  his  way; 
Who  prayed,  and  scoffing  tongues  grew  fain 

To  pray  the  prayers  they  heard  him  pray. 

Who,  guided  by  a  righteous  aim, 

Enkindled  with  his  mortal  breath 
A  beacon,  on  the  cliffs  of  fame. 

That  shines  across  the  wastes  of  death ; 

From  cell  to  old  cathedral  height, 

From  cowled  monk  to  vestal  nun, 
As,  through,  the  cloudy  realms  of  night, 

The  fiery  seams  of  daybreak  run  — 

Till  in  the  pilgrim's  way,  the  reeds 

Like  unto  strong  red  cedars  thrive, 
And  free  from  wrappings  of  old  creeds 

The  corpse  of  thought  stands  up  alive. 

Gone  from  the  watchings  of  the  night. 

The  wrestling  might  of  lonely  prayers  ;  — 

Oh,  ages  !  add  your  reverend  light 
To  the  great  glory  that  he  bears  ! 


THE  EVENING   WALK. 

"  Mother,  see  my  cottage  bonnet ! 

Never  was  it  bleached  so  white ; 
I  have  put  fresh  ribbons  on  it, 

And  three  roses  for  to-night. 
Think  you,  mother,  they  will  fade 
For  a  half  hour  in  the  shade  ?  " 
'T  was  the  coaxing  Adelaide 

Thus  who  said,  the  bonnet  tying 
Close  about  her  golden  hair. 


250  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Waiting  not  for  a  replying 
To  her  questions,  she  must  wear 

The  new  ribbons  and  the  flowers  — • 
None  would  see  them  —  't  was  her  mood 
On  the  hill-side  near  the  w^ood 

She  would  be  the  next  two  hours. 
"  If  you  want  me,  mother  dear  — 
Call,  I  shall  be  sure  to  hear." 
So  said  joyous  Adelaide  — 
Pretty,  self-deceiving  maid. 

Many  times  before  that  day 
She  had  gone  the  self -same  way, 
Singing,  skipping  here  and  there, 
Where  a  daisy  bloomed,  or  where 
Patches  of  bright  grasses  lay. 
She  would  pout  if  you  should  say 
Sweeter  music  twilight  cheers 
Than  the  birds  make,  and  with  tears 
Tell  you,  it  is  not  the  truth 
She  has  ever  seen  a  youth 
Driving  cattle  any  night 
Down  a  meadow  full  in  sight  — 
Down*  a  meadow  thick  with  flowers 
Driving  cattle,  brown  and  white, 

Slowly  towards  a  shallow  well, 
Hedged  with  lilies  all  around, 

Brighter  than  the  speckled  shell 
Of  the  "  sweet  beast  "  Hermes  found. 

What  deceitful  hearts  are  ours ! 

For  't  is  true,  say  all  she  can, 

That  the  farm-boy,  Corolan, 
Drives  at  night  his  cattle  so  — 
Silent  sometimes  drives  them,  slow  — 
Sometimes  trilling  songs  of  glee  — 

Treading  very  near  the  shade 
Where,  unconscious,  it  may  be, 

Sits  the  blushing  Adelaide. 
The  huge  leader  of  the  flock 

Often  with  a  golden  strand. 
Made  of  oat  straw,  gailj^  bound 
His  black  forehead  round  and  round, 


MY  MOTHER.  251 

Close  to  Corolan  doth  walk, 
Gently  guided  by  his  hand. 

Haply  't  is  but  for  the  pleasing 
Of  his  own  eyes  he  doth  make 
The  gold  cordage,  and  for  sake 
Of  the  green  and  flowery  dells 
His  white  oxen  wear  the  bells, 

And  the  song  may  be  for  easing 
A  young  heart  that  loves  the  flowing 

Of  soft  sounds  in  solitudes, 
And  the  lonesome  echoes  going 

Like  lost  poets  through  the  woods. 
Or  all  haply,  happens  so  — 

For  the  maiden  says  with  tears, 

"  On  the  white  necks  of  the  steers 
Silver  bells  make  music  low 
When  the  pastured  cattle  go 
Toward  the  spring  —  but  not  a  sound 
Sweeter,  ever  echoes  round"  — 

So  it  cannot  be  she  hears ! 
And  if  thither  Corolan  strays. 
She  has  seen  him  not,  she  says ; 
And  if  eyes  so  bold  and  bright 

As  you  hint  of,  pierced  the  shade, 
She  would  not  be  night  by  night 

On  the  hill  side. 

Adelaide 
Surely  would  not  so  declare 
If  she  saw  young  Corolan  there. 
So  we  will  not  wrong  the  maid 
Guessing  why  the  cottage  bonnet 
Had  fresh  flowers  and  ribbons  on  it, 
Or  for  what  the  hill  side  shade 
Pleased  her — beauteous  Adelaide. 


MY   MOTHER. 

'T  WAS  in  the  autumn's  dreary  close, 

A  long,  long  time  ago : 
The  berries  of  the  brier-rose 

Hung  bright  above  the  snow, 


252,  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

And  night  had  spread  a  shadow  wild 

About  the  earth  and  sky, 
When,  calling  me  her  orphan  child, 

She  said  that  she  must  die. 

She  rests  within  the  quiet  tomb, 

The  narrow  and  the  chill  — 
The  window  of  our  cabin  home 

Looks  out  upon  the  hill. 
Oh,  when  the  world  seems  wild  and  wide, 

And  friends  to  love  me  few, 
I  think  of  how  she  lived  and  died, 

And  gather  strength  anew. 


LAST   SONG.* 


The  beetle  from  the  furrow  goes, 
The  bird  is  on  the  sheltering  limb, 

And  in  the  twilight's  pallid  close 

Sits  the  gray  evening,  hushed  and  dim. 

In  the  blue  west  the  sun  is  down, 
And  soft  the  fountain  washes  o'er 

Green  limes  and  hyacinths  so  brown 
As  never  fountain  washed  before. 

I  scarce  can  hear  the  curlew  call, 

I  scarce  can  feel  the  night  wind's  breath  j 

I  only  see  the  shadows  fall, 
I  only  feel  this  chill  is  death. 

At  morn  the  bird  will  leave  the  bough. 
The  beetle  o'er  the  furrow  run, 

But  with  the  darkness  falling  now. 
The  morning  for  my  eyes  is  done. 

Piping  his  ditty  low  and  soft 

If  shepherd  chance  to  cross  the  wold, 

Bound  homeward  from  the  flowery  croft, 
And  the  white  tendance  of  his  fold, 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1865. 


PERVERSITY.  253 

And  find  me  lying  fast  asleep, 

Be  inspiration  round  him  thrown, 
That  he  may  dig  my  grave  down  deep, 

Where  never  any  sunshine  shone. 


WEARINESS* 

Gentle,  gentle  sisters  twain, 
I  am  sad  with  toil  and  pain, 
Hoping,  struggling,  all  in  vain, 
And  would  be  with  you  again. 

Sick  and  weary,  let  me  go 
To  our  homestead,  old  and  low. 
Where  the  cool,  fresh  breezes  blow  — 
There  I  shall  be  well,  I  know. 

Violets,  gold,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Sprout  up  sweetly  through  the  dew  — 
Lilacs  now  are  budding,  too,  — 
Oh,  I  pine  to  be  with  you ! 

I  am  lonely  and  unblest  — 
I  am  weary,  and  would  rest 
Where  all  things  are  brightest,  best, 
In  the  lovely,  lovely  West. 


PEEVERSITY.* 

If  thy  weak,  puny  hand  might  reach  away 

And  rend  out  lightnings  from  the  clouds  to-day. 

At  little  pains,  as,  with  a  candle  flame 
Touching  the  flax  upon  my  distaff  here 

Would  fill  the  house  with  light,  it  were  the  same  — 

A  little  thing  to  do.     It  is  the  far 

Makes  half  the  poet's  passion  for  the  star. 

The  while  he  treads  the  shining  dewdrop  near. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


254  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Of  mortal  weaknesses  I  have  my  share  — 

Pining  and  longing,  and  the  madman's  fit 
Of  groundless  hatreds,  blindest  loves,  despair — 

But  in  this  rhymed  musing  I  have  writ 
Of  an  infirmity  that  is  not  mine : 
My  heart's  dear  idol  were  not  less  divine 
That  no  grave  gaped  between  us,  black  and  steep ; 
Though,  if  it  were  so,  I  could  oversweep 

Its  gulf  —  all  gulfs  —  though  ne'er  so  widely  riven ; 
Or  from  hot  desert  sands  dig  out  sweet  springs ; 
For  I  believe,  and  I  have  still  believed. 
That  Love  may  even  fold  its  milk-white  wings 

In  the  red  bosom  of  hell,  nor  up  to  heaven 
Measure  the  distance  with  one  thought  aggrieved. 

Why  should  I  tear  my  flesh,  and  bruise  my  feet, 
Climbing  for  roses,  when,  from  where  I  stand, 
Down  the  green  meadow  I  may  reach  my  hand, 

And  pluck  them  off  as  well  ?  —  sweet,  very  sweet 
This  world  which  God  has  made  about  us  lies,  — 
Shall  we  reproach  him  with  unthankful  eyes  ? 


WHEN   MY   LOVE   AND   I   LIE   DEAD. 

When  my  love  and  I  lie  dead, 

Both  together  on  one  bed, 

Shall  it  first  be  truly  said, 

"  Fate  was  kindly  :  they  are  wed ! " 

When  they  come  the  shroud  to  make 
Some  sweet  soul  shall  say,  '^  Awake 
From  your  long  white  sleep,  and  take 
Feast  of  kisses  for  love's  sake." 

And  though  we  nor  see  nor  hear  — 
Safe  from  sorrow  —  safe  from  fear, 
Both  together  on  one  bier. 
We  shall  feel  each  other  near. 

Oh  my  lover,  oh  my  friend. 
This  I  know  will  be  the  end  — 
Only  when  our  ashes  blend 
Will  our  heavy  fortunes  mend. 


DEVOTION.  255 


HIDDEN   LIGHT. 

The  rain  is  beating  sullenly  to-night; 

The  wild  red  flowers  like  flames  are  drenched  away ; 
Down  through  the  gaps  of  the  black  woods  the  light 

Strikes  cold  and  dismal.     Only  yesterday 
It  seems  since  Spring  along  the  neighboring  moor 

Washed  up  the  daisies,  and  the  barks  of  trees 
Cracked  with  green  buds,  while  at  my  cabin  door 

The  brier  hung  heavy  with  the  yellow  bees. 

Now  all  is  blank  :  the  wind  climbs  drearily 

Against  the  hills,  the  pastures  close  are  browsed ; 
Snakes  slip  in  gaps  of  earth,  gray  crickets  cry. 

Ants  cease  from  running,  and  the  bat  is  housed. 
No  bright  star,  throbbing  through  the  dark,  one  beam 

Of  comfort  sends  me  from  its  home  above  — 
I  only  see  the  splendor  of  a  dream, 

Slowly  and  sadly  fading  out  of  love. 

I  only  see  the  wild  boughs  as  they  blow 

Against  my  window,  see  the  purple  slant 
Of  twilight  shadows  into  darkness  go ; 

And  yet  again  the  whistling  March  will  plant 
The  April  meadows,  wheat  fields  will  grow  bright 

In  their  own  time,  the  king-cups  in  their  day 
Come  through  the  grass  ;  and  somewhere  there  is  Light 

If  my  weak  thoughts  could  strike  upon  the  way. 


DEVOTION. 


Within  a  silver  wave  of  cloud 
The  yellow  sunset  light  was  staid, 

As  on  the  daisied  turf  she  bowed : 
I  saw  and  loved  her  as  she  prayed  - 

Thy  holy  will  on  earth  be  done. 

As  in  the  heavens,  all-hallowed  One ! 

No  evil  word  her  lip  had  learned ; 
Her  heart  with  love  was  overfull : 


256  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

No  scarlet  sinfulness  had  turned 

Her  garment  from  the  look  of  wool : 
Give  us,  oh  Lord,  our  daily  bread ; 
Keep  us  and  guide  us  home,  she  said. 

No  violet,  with  head  so  low. 

Were  sweetly  meek  as  she  in  prayer; 

Nor  rising  from  the  April  snow 
A  daffodilly,  half  so  fair. 

As  her  uprising  from  the  sod, 

Fresh  from  communion  with  her  God. 


PROPHECY* 


I  THINK  thou  lovest  me  —  yet  a  prophet  said 

To-day,  Elhadra,  if  thou  laidest  dead, 
From  thy  white  forehead  would  he  fold  the  shroud, 

And  crown  thee  with  his  kisses.     Nay,  not  so  — 
The  love  that  to  thy  living  presence  bowed, 

When  death  shall  claim  thee  will  be  quick  to  go. 
Shall  the  wood  fall  to  ashes,  and  the  flame, 

Feeding  on  nothing,  live  and  burn  the  same  ? 

So,  with  my  large  faith  unto  gloom  allied, 

Sprang  up  a  shadow  sunshine  could  not  quell, 
And  the  voice  said,  Would'st  haste  to  go  outside 

This  continent  of  being,  it  were  well  — 
Where  finite,  growing  toward  the  Infinite, 

Its  robe  of  glory  gathers  out  of  dust, 
And,  looking  down  the  radiances  white, 

Sees  all  God's  purposes  about  us,  just. 

Canst  thou,  Elhadra,  reach  out  of  the  grave. 
And  draw  the  golden  waters  of  love's  well  ? 

His  years  are  chrisms  of  brightness  in  time's  wave- 
Thine  are  as  dewdrops  in  the  nightshade's  bell ! 

Then  straightening  in  my  hands  the  rippled  length 
Of  all  my  tresses,  slowly,  one  by  one, 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


A   RETROSPECT.  257 

I  took  the  flowers  out.     Dear  one,  in  thy  strength 
Pray  for  my  weakness.     Thou  hast  seen  the  sun, 

Large  in  the  setting,  drive  a  column  of  light, 

Down  through  the  darkness ;  so,  within  death's  nighty 

Oh,  my  beloved !  when  I  shall  have  gone, 

If  it  might  be  so,  would  my  love  burn  on. 


LIGHT   AND   LOVE. 

Light  waits  for  us  in  heaven :  Inspiring  thought ! 

That  when  the  darkness  all  is  overpast. 
The  beauty  which  the  lamb  of  God  has  bought 

Shall  flow  about  our  saved  souls  at  last. 
And  wrap  them  from  all  night-time  and  all  woe : 
The  spirit  and  the  word  assure  us  so. 

Love  lives  for  us  in  heaven :  Oh,  not  so  sweet 
Is  the  May  dew  which  mountain  flowers  inclose 

Nor  golden  raining  of  the  winnowed  wheat, 
Nor  blushing  out  of  the  brown  earth,  of  rose, 

Or  whitest  lily,  as,  beyond  time's  wars. 

The  silvery  rising  of  these  two  twin  stars  ! 


A   EETEOSPECT.=* 

Down  in  the  west,  the  sunset  gold 

Is  fading  from  the  sombre  cloud, 
And  a  fixed  sorrow,  hushed  and  cold. 

Is  closing  round  me  like  a  shroud ; 
Closing  with  thoughts  of  twilight  hours, 

When  gaily,  on  the  homestead  hill, 
Two  children  played  among  the  flowers  — 

I  would  that  they  were  children  still. 

For  as  I  scan  with  tear-dimmed  eyes 
The  future,  till  life's  sun  hangs  low, 

No  white  hand  reaches  from  the  skies, 
With  chrisms  of  healing  for  our  woe. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra  "  and,  with  the  omission  of  the  last  quatrain,  in  the  volume 
of  1855.    The  second  version  is  given  here. 


258  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

And  though  it  may  be  either  mind 

Has  grown  with  toil  and  years  and  strife, 

Experience,  like  a  blightning  Avind, 
Has  made  a  barren  waste  of  life  — 

A  barren  waste,  whose  reach  of  sands 
Lies  glowing  in  the  noontide  heat, 

Where  no  bright  tree  of  blossoms  stands, 
Dropping  cool  shadows  round  our  feet. 


THE   HOMELESS. 

As  down  on  the  wing  of  the  raven, 

Or  drops  on  the  upas-tree  lie, 
So  darkness  and  blight  are  around  me 

To-night,  I  can  scarcely  tell  why ! 

Alone  in  the  populous  city  ! 

No  hearth  for  7ny  coming  is  warm. 
And  the  stars,  the  sweet  stars,  are  all  hidden 

Away  in  the  cloud  and  the  storm ! 

The  thoughts  of  all  things  that  are  saddest. 
The  phantoms  unbidden  that  start 

From  the  ashes  of  hopes  that  have  perished, 
Are  with  me  to-night  in  my  heart ! 

Alas  !  in  this  desolate  sorrow, 

The  moments  are  heavy  and  long ; 

And  the  white-pinioned  spirit  of  Fancy 
Is  weary,  and  hushes  her  song. 

One  word  of  the  commonest  kindness 
Could  make  all  around  me  seem  bright 

As  birds  in  the  haunts  of  the  summer. 
Or  lights  in  a  village  at  night. 


A    PRAYER.  259 


A   PRAYER. 


Forgive  me,  God !  forgive  tliy  child,  I  pray. 

And  if  I  sin,  thy  holy  spirit  move 
My  heart  to  better  moods :  I  cannot  say, 

Disjoin  my  human  heart  from  human  love ! 

If,  in  the  rainy  woods,  the  traveler  sees. 

Through   some   black    gap,  a   splendor   fair   and 
white, 

Shining  beneath  the  wild  rough-rinded  trees. 
His  steps  turn  thither.     Through  the  infinite 

Of  darkness  that  would  else  be,  as  we  pass 
From  silence  into  silence,  round  our  way, 
Love  shineth  so.     Doth  not  the  mower  stay 

His  scythe,  if  that  a  bird  be  in  the  grass  ? 

If  God  be  love,  then  love  is  likest  God, 
And  our  low  natures  the  divineness  mock, 
If,  when  we  hear  the  blest  "  Arise  and  walk,'^ 

We  turn  our  faces  back  against  the  sod. 

The  plowman,  tired,  among  the  furrowed  corn, 
Leans  on  the  ox's  shoulder ;  done  with  play, 
Childhood  among  the  daisies  drops  away 

Into  the  lap  of  sleep,  and  dreams  till  morn. 

It  is  as  if,  when  angels  had  their  birth. 
The  one  with  heaviest  glory  on  its  wings, 

Dropt  from  its  proper  sphere  into  the  earth. 
Where,  piteous  of  our  mortal  needs,  it  sings. 

Sings  sweeter  melodies  than  winds  do  make, 
Playing  their  dulcimers  for  the  young  May ; 

Blessed  Forever !  if  sometimes  I  take 

Their  beauty  round  my  heart  —  forgive,  I  pray  ! 


260  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 


KINDNESS* 

In  the  dull  shadows  of  long  hopeless  strife 
I  talked  with  sorrow  —  round  about  me  lay 

The  broken  plans  and  promises  of  life,  — 

When  first  thy  Kindiiess  crossed  my  friendless  way. 

Then  felt  I,  hushed  with  wonder  and  sweet  awe, 
As  with  his  weary  banners  round  him  furled 

Felt  ocean's  wanderer,  when  first  he  saw 
The  pale-lipt  billows  kissing  a  new  world. 

The  joy,  the  rapture  of  that  glad  surprise, 

Haply  some  heart  may  know  that  inly  grieves, 

Some  sad  Ruth  bowing  from  love-speaking  eyes 
Her  trembling  bosom  over  alien  sheaves. 


ENJOY. 


That  the  dear  tranced  Pleasures  of  a  night 

Puts  on  her  hood  of  thorns  at  break  of  day  — 
Passing  the  cornfields,  and  the  hedges  gay 

With  honeysuckles,  straight :  her  feet,  so  white, 
Buried  down  deep  in  dust  —  aside  from  all 

The  sweet  birds  making  love-songs  in  the  woods. 
The  way-side  cottage  with  its  cold  green  wall 

Of  moss  against  the  sun,  the  fennel  buds 
Fringing  the  hay-fields  —  all  of  us  do  know; 

And  yet,  for  that  we  are  not  always  blest. 
Shall  we  be  always  weepers,  and  so  burn 

Our  dainty  bodies,  slacking  with  our  tears 
The  scorched  stones  our  stumblings  overturn. 

And  making  double  measurements  of  woe  ? 
Nay,  I  do  rather  deem  that  road  the  best. 

Which  hath  good  inns  beside  ;  where  oftenest  cheers 
The  well,  where  man  and  beast  may  drink  their  fill, 

Nor  stint  belated  travelers  one  whit ; 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra  "  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1855.    The  revision  is  given 
here. 


APRIL.  2G1 

And  all  the  house  is  with  white  candles  lit 
When  day  burns  down,  and  where  the  housew^ife  still 

Hath  some  red  earthen  pot  of  marigolds 

That  look  like,  sunshine  when  the  withered  wolds 
Are  under  the  flat  snow.     For  is  it  wrong 

If  human  needs  have  human  comforting  ? 
Or  shall  the  sweetness  of  our  winter  song 

Keep  the  green  April  buds  from  blossoming  ? 


APRIL. 


If,  in  the  sunshine  of  this  April  morn, 
Thick  as  the  furrows  of  the  unsown  corn, 
I  saw  the  grave-mounds  darkening  in  the  way 
That  I  have  come,  I  would  not  therefore  lay 
My  brow  against  their  shadows.     Sadly  brown 
May  fade  the  boughs  once  blowing  brightly  down 
About  my  playing ;  never  any  more 
May  fall  my  knocking  on  the  homestead  door. 
And  never  more  the  wild  birds  (pretty  things) 
Against  my  yellow  primrose  beds  their  wings 
May  nearly  slant,  as  singing  toward  the  woods 
They  fly  in  summer.     Shall  I  hence  take  moods 

Of  moping  melancholy  —  sobbings  wild 
For  the  blue  modest  eyes,  that  sweetly  lit 
All  my  lost  youth  ?    Nay  !  though  this  rhyme  were  writ 

By  funeral  torches,  I  would  yet  have  smiled 
Betwixt  the  verses.     God  is  good,  I  know  ; 
And  though  in  this  bad  soil  a  time  we  grow 

Crooked  and  ugly,  all  the  ends  of  things 
Must  be  in  beauty.     Love  can  w^ork  no  ill ; 

And  though  we  see  the  shadow  of  its  wings 
Only  at  times,  shall  we  not  trust  it  still ! 

So,  even  for  the  dead  I  will  not  bind 
My  soul  to  grief :  Death  cannot  long  divide ; 

For  is  it  not  as  if  the  rose  that  climbed 
My  garden  wall,  had  bloomed  the  other  side  ? 


262  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY, 


AT   THE    GRAVE. 

The  grass  grew  green  between  us,  and  I  said 
There  is  no  soul  to  love  me  —  peace  is  lost; 
Over  my  heavy  heart  my  hands  I  crossed, 

And  mourned  the  sun  away  :  "  She  is  not  dead 

But  sleepeth  only ;  time  is  as  a  wall 

Where  death  makes  rents,  and  thro'  which  come  and  go 
Hourly,  the  spirits  which  ye  mourn  for  so. 

Faithless,  and  faint,  and  blind."     As  if  a  call 

Came  out  of  heaven,  I  lifted  up  my  eyes. 

And  thought  to  see  white  wings  along  the  air ; 
The  many  stars,  the  single  moon,  were  there  — 

Seeing  not,  I  felt,  the  might  that  deifies. 

The  darkness  had  the  quality  of  light; 

I  knew  no  soul  that  God  had  made  could  die  — 

That  time  is  knitted  to  eternity. 
And  finite  drawn  into  the  Infinite. 

The  violets  of  seven  bright  times  of  bloom 
Lay  purple  in  the  moonlight  as  before, 
But  I,  who  came  a  mourner,  mourned  no  more; 

An  angel  had  been  sitting  at  the  tomb  — 

The  stone  was  rolled  away.     A  temple  gate, 

O'errun  with  flowers,  and  shining  with  the  light 
Of  altar-fires,  life  seemed  to  me  that  night. 

Where,  for  the  marriage  crowning,  lovers  wait. 


MULBEERY   HILL.=* 


Oh,  sweet  was  the  eve  when  I  came  from  the  mill, 
Adown  the  green  windings  of  Mulberry  Hill : 
My  heart  like  a  bird  with  its  throat  all  in  tune, 
That  sings  in  the  beautiful  bosom  of  June. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


A    RUSTIC   PLAINT.  263 

For  there,  at  her  spinning,  beneath  a  broad  tree, 

By  a  rivulet  shining  and  blue  as  the  sea. 

First  I  saw  my  Mary  —  her  tiny  feet  bare. 

And  the  buds  of  the  sumach  among  her  black  hair. 

They  called  me  a  bold  enough  youth,  and  I  would 
Have  kept  the  name  honestly  earned,  if  I  could ; 
But,  somehow,  the  song  I  had  whistled  was  hushed, 
And,  spite  of  my  manhood,  I  felt  that  I  blushed. 

I  would  tell  you,  but  words  cannot  paint  my  delight, 
When  she  gave  the  red  buds  for  a  garland  of  white, 
When  her  cheek  with  soft  blushes  —  but  no,  't  is  in  vain  I 
Enough  that  I  loved,  and  she  loved  me  again. 

Three  summers  have  come  and  gone  by  with  their  charms, 
And  a  cherub  of  purity  smiles  in  my  arms, 
With  lips  like  the  rosebud  and  locks  softly  light 
As  the  flax  which  my  Mary  was  spinning  that  night. 

And  in  the  dark  shadows  of  Mulberry  Hill, 

By  the  grass-covered  road  where  I  came  from  the  mill, 

And  the  rivulet  shining  and  blue  as  the  sea, 

My  Mary  lies  sleeping  beneath  the  broad  tree. 


A  RUSTIC   PLAINT. 

Since  thou,  my  love,  didst  level  thy  wild  wings 
To  goodlier  shelter  than  my  cabin  makes, 
I  work  with  heavy  hands,  as  one  who  breaks 

The  flax  to  spin  a  shroud  of.     April  rings 

With  silvery  showers,  smiles  light  the  face  of  May, 
The  thistle's  prickly  leaves  are  lined  with  wool. 
And  their  gray  tops  of  purple  burs  set  full ; 

Quails  through  the  stubble  run.     From  day  to  day 

Through  these  good  seasons  I  have  sadly  mused. 
The  very  stars,  thou  knowest,  sweet,  for  what. 
Draw  their  red  flames  together,  standing  not 

About  the  mossy  gables  as  they  used. 


264  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

No  more  I  dread  the  winds,  fhough  ne'er  so  rough : 
Better  the  withered  bole  should  prostrate  lie ;  — 
Only  the  ravens  in  its  black  limbs  cry, 

And  better  birds  will  find  green  boughs  enough. 


THE  SPIRIT-HAUNTED  * 

O'er  the  dark  woods,  surging,  solemn. 

Hung  the  new  moon's  silver  ring ; 
And  in  white  and  naked  beauty, 

Out  from  Twilight's  luminous  wing. 
Peered  the  first  star  of  the  eve ;  — 
'T  was  the  time  when  poets  weave 
Eadiant  songs  of  love's  sweet  passion, 

In  the  loom  of  thought  sublime. 
And  with  throbbing,  quick  pulsations 

Beat  the  golden  web  of  rhyme. 

On  a  hillside  very  lonely 

With  the  willows'  dewy  flow 
Shutting  down  like  sombre  curtains 

Round  the  silent  beds  below. 
Where  the  lip  from  love  is  bound, 
And  the  forehead  napkin-crowned,  — 
I  beheld  the  spirit-haunted  — 

Saw  his  wild  eyes  burn  like  fire, 
Saw  his  thin  hands,  clasped  together, 

Crush  the  frail  strings  of  his  lyre, 
As,  upon  a  dream  of  splendor 

His  abraded  soul  was  stretched, 
And  across  the  heart's  sad  ruins 

Winged  imaginations  reached 
Toward  the  glory  of  the  skies  — 
Toward  the  love  that  never  dies. 

In  a  tower,  shadow-laden. 

With  a  casement  high  and  dim, 
Years  agone  there  dwelt  a  maiden, 

Loving  and  beloved  by  him. 

♦Printed  in  "Lyra"  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1855.    The  revision  is 
given  here. 


ULALIE.  265 

But  while  singing  sweet  one  day 
A  bold  masker  crossed  her  way. 

Then  —  her  bosom  softly  trembling 

Like  a  star  in  morning's  light  — 
Faithless  to  her  mortal  lover 

Fled  she  forth  into  the  night,  — 
A  great  feast  for  her  was  spread 
In  the  Kingdom  overhead. 

Woe,  oh  woe  !  for  the  abandoned  ; 

Dim  his  mortal  steps  must  be; 
Death's  high  priest  his  soul  has  wedded 

Unto  immortality !  — 
Twilight's  purple  fall,  or  morn, 
Finds  him,  leaves  him,  weary,  lorn. 

In  her  cave  lies  Silence,  hungry 

For  the  beauty  of  his  song ; 
Echoes,  locked  from  mortal  waking, 

Tremble  as  he  goes  along. 
And  for  love  of  him  pale  maids 
Lean  like  lilies  from  the  shades. 

But  the  locks  of  love  unwinding 

From  his  bosom  as  he  may, 
Buries  he  his  soul  of  sorrow 

In  the  cloud-dissolving  day 
Of  the  spirit-peopled  shore 
Ever,  ever,  evermore. 


ULALIE.* 


The  crimson  of  the  maple  trees 

Is  lighted  by  the  moon's  soft  glow ; 

Oh,  nights  like  this,  and  things  like  these, 
Bring  back  a  dream  of  long  ago. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


266  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

For  on  an  eve  as  sweet  as  this  — 

Upon  this  bank  —  beneath  this  tree  — 

My  lips,  in  love's  impassioned  kiss, 
Met  those  of  Ulalie. 

Softly  as  now  the  dewdrops  burned 

In  the  flushed  bosoms  of  the  flowers, 
Backward  almost  seems  time  to  have  turned 

The  golden  axis  of  the  hours, 
Till,  cold  as  ocean's  beaten  surf, 

Beneath  these  trailing  boughs,  I  see 
The  white  cross  and  the  faded  turf 

Above  lost  Ulalie. 


ON   THE   PICTURE   OF   A   MAGDALEN. 

To  be  unpitied,  to  be  weary, 

To  feel  the  nights,  the  daytimes,  dreary. 

To  find  nor  bread  nor  wine  that  's  cheery. 

To  live  apart, 
To  be  unneighbored  among  neighbors, 
Sharing  the  burdens  and  the  labors, 
Never  to  have  the  songs  of  tabors 

Gladden  the  heart. 

To  be  penitent  forever. 

And  yet  a  sinner  —  never,  never 

At  peace  with  the  Divine  Forgiver  — 

Always  at  prayer. 
Longing  for  Mercy's  white  pavilion, 
Yet  all  the  while  a  stubborn  alien. 
Uprising  proudly  in  rebellion. 

Hell,  Heaven,  to  dare. 

To  feel  all  thoughts  alike  unholy, 
To  count  all  pleasures  but  as  folly. 
To  mope  in  ways  of  melancholy. 

Nor  rest  to  know  ; 
To  be  a  gleaner,  not  a  reaper, 
A  scorner  proud,  a  humble  weeper. 
And  of  no  heart  to  be  the  keeper, 

This  is  my  woe  ! 


YOUNG  LOVE.  267 


DEATH  SONG.* 

Friexd,  if  there  be  any  near, 

Is  the  blessed  summer  here  ? 

Is  't  the  full  moon,  are  they  flowers, 

Make  so  bright,  so  sweet  the  hours  ? 

Is  't  the  wind  from  cowslip  beds, 

That  such  fragrance  o'er  me  sheds  ? 


0  my  kindred,  do  not  weep ; 
Never  fell  so  sweet  a  sleep 
Over  mortal  eyes.     At  night. 
All  the  hills  with  snow  were  white 
And  the  tempest  moaning  drear  — 
But  I  wake  with  summer  here. 


Haste,  and  take  my  parting  hand ! 
We  are  pushing  from  the  land. 
And  adown  a  lovely  stream 
Gently  floating  —  is  't  a  dream  ? 
For  the  oarsman  near  me  sings. 
Keeping  time  with  snowy  wings. 

Stranger,  with  the  wings  of  snow, 
Singing  by  me  as  we  row. 
Tell  my  dear  ones  on  the  shore, 
I  have  need  of  them  no  more ; 
Weeping  will  not  let  them  see 
That  an  angel  goes  with  me. 


YOUNG  LOVE.t 

Life  hath  its  mefnories  lovely. 
That  over  the  heart  are  blown, 

As  over  the  face  of  the  Autumn 
The  light  of  the  summer  flown ; 

*  Printed  in  "  Lvra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1S55. 

t  As  printed  in"  Lyra,"  this  poem  had  a  third  stanza,  which  was  dropped  ifl 
the  reprint  of  1855. 


268  POEMS   BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Kising  out  of  the  midst  so  chilling 
That  oft  life's  sky  enshrouds, 

Like  a  new  moon  sweetly  filling 
Among  the  twilight  clouds. 

And  among  them  comes,  how  often, 

Young  love's  unresting  wraith, 
To  lift  lost  hope  out  of  ruins 

To  the  gladness  of  perfect  faith ; 
Drifting  out  of  the  past  as  lightly 

As  winds  of  the  May-time  flow: 
And  lifting  the  shadows  brightly. 

As  the  daffodil  lifts  the  snow. 


THE  MORNING. 

Break,  morning,  break,  I  weary  of  the  night, 
Longing  to  see  and  know  the  truth  of  things. 
To  gather  faith  up,  as  the  bird  her  wings. 

And  soar  into  the  kingdom,  where  is  light. 

Arise,  oh  Sun !  for  while  the  midnight  lay 

Along  the  path  we  traveled  —  dense,  profound. 
The  hands  and  feet  of  my  sweet  mate  were  bound. 

And  he  is  prisoned  till  the  break  of  day. 

Shadows,  wild  shadows,  from  the  air  be  gone  — 
Where  shaken  boughs  of  golden  lilies  stood, 
Came  up  a  black  impenetrable  wood. 

When  love  was  lost  —  I  cannot  journey  on. 

By  the  King's  palace  low  my  knees  I  bow. 
On  the  dark  porch  beside  the  palace  white 
Waiting  the  morn  which  shall  husk  out  the  light 

From  the  thick  shell  of  darkness  round  me  now. 


TIMES.  269 


AWAKENING. 


His  hair  is  as  white  as  the  snow, 

And  I  am  his  only  child  — 
(How  wild  the  storm  beats  on  my  chamber  low  — ) 

When  we  parted  last  he  smiled. 

He  smiled,  and  his  hand  was  laid 
Like  the  summer  dew  on  my  head — 

('T  is  a  fearful  night,  I  am  half  afraid,) 
God  bless  you,  my  child,  he  said. 

On  the  meadow  the  mist  hung  low, 

The  beauty  of  summer  was  o'er, 
And  the  winds  as  they  went  to  and  fro, 

Shook  the  red-rinded  pears  at  the  door. 

How  well  I  remembered*  it  all. 

The  brier-buds  close  at  the  pane. 
And  the  trumpet-vine  tied  to  the  wall  — 

I  never  shall  see  them  again. 

I  must  sink  to  the  shadowy  vale  — 

'T  is  dreary  alone  to  go, 
0  temper,  sweet  Pity,  my  tale. 

His  hair  is  as  white  as  the  snow. 


TIMES. 


Times  are  there  when  I  long  to  know 
The  mystery  beyond  life's  wave, 

Even  at  the  awful  price,  to  go 
Unmated  through  the  grave. 

Times  when  our  loves  and  hatreds,  all 
Of  level  vast,  or  skyey  steep. 

Seem  only  like  the  meadow  wall 
A  very  lamb  might  leap. 

♦  Probably  a  misprint  for  "remember," 


270  POEMS  BY  ALICE    CARY. 

Times,  when  within  my  heart  the  grain 
Of  faith  into  a  mountain  grows, 

As  suddenly  as  in  the  rain 
The  bud  becomes  a  rose. 

Times,  when  in  fancy's  shining  fold 
Joys  out  of  heaven  are  drawn  to  me, 

As  stars  in  twilight's  net  of  gold 
Out  of  the  sunset  sea. 

Times,  when  rebellion  so  abounds 
Within  me,  I,  though  Satan's  mark, 

Would  twist  his  fiery  wings  to  crowns. 
And  glorify  the  dark. 

Times,  when  I  feel  myself  a  wreck 
And  hear  a  voice  say  in  my  heart, 

"  Better  a  mill-stone  round  thy  neck, 
Than  being  what  thou  art." 

So  am  I  driven  upon  life's  stream. 
By  every  wave,  by  every  breeze. 

From  good  to  ill  —  my  life  a  gleam 
Between  the  darknesses. 


THE   PROPHECY. 

We  two  were  playmates,  —  Rosalie 

Had  lived  full  three  years  more  than  I. 

One  wild  March  day  she  said  to  me, 

''  Sweet,  would  you  grieve  if  I  should  die  ?  " 

The  black  cock  clapped  his  wings  and  crew 
Loud,  from  the  willow  overhead : 

I  laughed  for  the  good  sign  —  she  drew 
Her  gold  hair  through  her  hands  and  said, 

The  while  the  tears  came,  "  We  shall  play 
Under  these  boughs  no  more  !  "     Alas ! 

I  know  now  that  she  saw  that  day 
The  daisies  in  the  churchyard  grass. 


WORSHIP.  271 

I  tried  to  see  the  squirrel  climb 

The  silver  beech-bole,  —  tried  to  see 

The  bees,  thick-flying,  —  all  the  time 
My  eyes  were  fixed  on  Kosalie. 

A  week  or  more  the  March  had  worn 

Upon  the  April's  flowery  way,  — 
And  pale,  and  all  her  long  locks  shorn. 

On  our  low  bed  sweet  Kosy  lay. 

Across  her  pillow  in  bright  strands 

I  saw  them  fall  (and  wept  to  see). 
The  self-same  way  her  little  hands 

Had  twined  them  'neath  the  willow  tree. 

I  had  been  with  her  all  the  night ; 

Softly  she  slept  the  time  away. 
In  the  wet  woods  before  the  light 

The  little  brown  birds  sang  for  day. 

Over  the  locks  that  lay  across 

The  pillow  where  so  well  she  slept, 
Long  years  has  grown  the  churchyard  moss,  — 

One  golden  tangle  only,  kept. 


WOUSHIP. 


I  HAVE  no  seasons  and  no  times 

To  think  of  heaven  ;  sometimes  at  night 
I  go  up  on  a  stair  of  rhymes. 

And  find  the  journey  very  bright: 
And  for  some  accidental  good. 
Wrought  by  me,  saints  have  near  me  stood. 

I  do  not  think  my  heart  is  hard 
Beyond  the  common  heart  of  men, 

And  yet  sometimes  the  best  award 
Smites  on  it  like  a  stone ;  and  then 

A  sunbeam,  that  may  brightly  stray 

In  at  my  window,  makes  me  pray. 


272  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

The  flower  I  've  chanced  on,  in  some  nook 
Giving  its  wild  heart  to  the  bee, 

Has  taught  me  meekness,  like  a  book 
Of  written  preaching ;  and  to  see 

A  corn  field  ripe,  an  orchard  red. 

Has  made  me  bow  with  shame  my  head. 

Of  stated  rite  and  formula, 

A  formal  use  the  meaning  wears ; 

When  mostly  in  God's  works  I  see 
And  feel  his  love,  I  make  my  prayers, 

And  by  the  peace  that  comes,  I  know 

My  worship  is  accepted  so. 


ONLY   TWO. 


When  the  wind  shall  come  again, 
The  last  leaflet  will  be  cleft 

From  the  bough  that  chafes  the  pane 
Only  two  of  us  are  left. 

Two  of  us  to  smile  or  weep : 

All  the  others  are  asleep. 

Ah,  the  winds  more  softly  blow, 
But  the  wild  rain  falls  instead ; 

And  the  last  sad  leaf  must  go : 
All  its  pretty  mates  are  dead. 

So  I  sit  in  musing  sad, 

Of  the  mates  that  I  have  had. 

And  the  while  I  make  my  rhymes, 
Harking  to  the  dim  rain  fall, 

In  between  my  dreams,  sometimes. 
They  come  smiling,  one  and  all  — 

They  of  whom  we  are  bereft : 

Only  two  of  us  are  left. 

Many  a  time  we  lay  across 
Beds  of  softest,  whitest  down, 

As  it  made  the  low  roof  moss 
Green  upon  a  ground  of  brown. 

They  who  close  beside  me  lay 

Do  not  hear  the  rain  to-day. 


NOBILITY.  273 


NOBILITY. 

Hilda  is  a  lofty  lady, 

Very  proud  is  she  — 
I  am  but  a  simple  herdsman 

Dwelling  by  the  sea. 
Hilda  hath  a  spacious  palace, 

Broad,  and  white  and  high  ; 
Twenty  good  dogs  guard  the  portal  — 

Never  house  had  I. 

Hilda  hath  a  thousand  meadows  — 

Boundless  forest  lands ; 
She  hath  men  and  maids  for  service  — 

I  have  but  my  hands. 
The  sweet  summer's  ripest  roses, 

Hilda's  cheeks  outvie  — 
Queens  have  paled  to  see  her  beauty  — 

But  my  beard  have  I. 

Hilda  from  her  palace  windows 

Looketh  down  on  me. 
Keeping  with  my  dove-brown  oxen 

By  the  silver  sea. 
When  her  dulcet  harp  she  playeth. 

Wild  birds,  singing  nigh, 
Cluster  listening  by  her  white  hands  — 

But  my  reed  have  I. 

I  am  but  a  simple  herdsman. 

With  nor  house  nor  lands  ; 
She  hath  men  and  maids  for  service  — 

I  have  but  my  hands. 
And  yet  what  are  all  her  crimsons 

To  my  sunset  sky  — 
With  my  free  hands  and  my  manhood 

Hilda's  peer  am  I. 


274  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY, 


DOOMED* 

Oh  demon  waiting  o'er  the  grave, 

To  plead  against  thy  power  were  vain ; 
Turning  from  heaven,  I  blindly  gave 

My  soul  to  everlasting  pain. 
Take  me  and  torture  me  at  will  — 

My  hands  I  will  not  lift  for  aye, 
The  flames  that  die  not,  nor  can  kill, 

To  wind  from  my  poor  heart  away ; 
For  I  have  borne  and  still  can  bear 

The  pain  of  sorrow's  wretched  storms. 
But,  love,  how  shall  I  hush  the  prayer 

For  the  sweet  shelter  of  thy  arms  ? 

Oh  home  !  no  more  your  dimpling  rills 

Would  cool  this  forehead  from  its  pain ; 
Flowers,  blowing  down  the  western  hills, 

Ye  may  not  fill  my  lap  again ; 
Time,  speed  with  wilder,  stormier  wings, 

The  smile  that  lights  my  lip  to-day. 
As  like  the  ungenial  fire  that  springs 

From  the  pale  ashes  of  decay. 
0  !  lost,  like  some  fair  planet  beam. 

In  clouds  that  tempests  over-brim. 
How  could  the  splendor  of  a  dream 

Make  all  the  future  life  so  dim ! 


THE   WAY. 


I  CANNOT  plainly  see  the  way, 

So  dark  the  grave  is ;  but  I  know 

If  I  do  truly  work  and  pray. 

Some  good  will  brighten  out  of  woe. 

For  the  same  hand  that  doth  unbind 

The  winter  wiuds,  sends  sweetest  showers. 

And  the  poor  rustic  laughs  to  find 
His  April  meadows  full  of  flowers. 

*  Printed  in  "  Ljra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


THISBE.  275 

I  said  I  could  not  see  the  way, 

And  yet  what  need  is  there  to  see, 
More  than  to  do  what  good  I  may. 

And  trust  the  great  strength  over  me  ? 

Why  should  my  spirit  pine,  and  lean 

From  its  clay  house ;  or  restless,  bow, 
Asking  the  shadows,  if  they  mean 
To  darken  always,  dim  as  now  ? 

Why  should  I  vainly  seek  to  solve 

Free  will,  necessity,  the  pall  ? 
I  feel  —  I  know  —  that  God  is  love. 

And  knowing  this,  I  know  it  all. 


THISBE* 


Subset's  pale  arrows  shivering  near  and  far  !  — 

A  little  gray  bird  on  an  oaken  tree, 
Pouring  its  tender  plaint,  and  eve's  lone  star 

Resting  its  silver  rim  upon  the  sea ! 

Tn  dismallest  abandonment  she  lies  — 
The  undone  Thisbe,  witless  of  the  night, 

Locking  the  sweet  time  from  her  mournful  eyes. 
With  her  thin  lingers,  a  most  piteous  sight. 

O'er  her  soft  cheek  the  sprouting  grasses  lean. 
And  the  round  moon's  gray,  melancholy  light 

Creeps  through  the  darkness,  all  unfelt,  unseen, 
And  folds  the  tender  limbs  from  the  chill  night. 

Pressing  your  cold  hands  over  rushy  springs, 
And  making  your  chaste  beds  in  beaded  dew. 

About  her,  Nereides,  draw  your  magic  rings. 
And  wreath  her  golden-budded  hopes  anew. 

For  by  the  tumult  of  thick-coming  sighs. 
The  aspect  wan  that  hath  no  mortal  name, 

I  know  the  wilful  god  of  the  blind  eyes 

Hath  sped  a  love-shaft  with  too  true  an  aim. 

*  Printed  in  "Lyra"  and,  revised,  in  the  volume  of  1S55.     The  revision  is  given 
here. 


276  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 


SAFE. 


Oh,  stormy  wind  of  winter-time, 

Moan  wildly  as  you  will ; 
His  rest  you  cannot  trouble  now, 

His  heart  you  cannot  chill. 

Lean  to  the  earth,  oh,  summer  corn, 

Before  the  dim  wet  blast ; 
His  eyes  have  seen  the  golden  calm 

Of  harvests  never  past. 

Deep  in  your  bosom  fold,  oh  earth. 
Your  shining  flowers  away ; 

His  steps  are  in  the  lily  fields 
Of  never  ending  May. 

Draw  your  red  shadows  from  the  wall, 

Oh  beauteous  ember-glow ; 
Drift  cold  about  his  silent  house, 

Oh  white  December  snow ; 

Across  the  sparkle  of  the  dew 
Dry  dust  in  whirlwinds  pour ; 

Hide,  new  moon,  in  the  cloudy  skies  — 
He  needs  your  light  no  more  ! 


ADELIED.* 


Unpraised  but  of  my  simple  rhymes 
She  pined  from  life,  and  died, 

The  softest  of  all  April  times 
That  storm  and  shine  divide. 

The  swallow  twittered  within  reach 

Impatient  of  the  ram. 
And  the  red  blossoms  of  the  peach 

Blew  down  against  the  pane. 

*  Printed  in  "  Lyra,"  as  well  as  in  the  volume  of  1855. 


WHAT  AN  ANGEL   SAID.  277 

When,  feeling  that  life's  wasting  sands 

AVere  wearing  into  hours, 
She  took  her  long  locks  in  her  hands 

And  gathered  out  the  flowers. 

The  day  was  nearly  at  the  close, 

And  on  the  eave  in  sight. 
The  doves  were  gathered  in  white  rows 

With  bosoms  to  the  light ; 

When  first  my  sorrow  flowed  to  rhymes 

For  gentle  Adelied  — 
The  light  of  thrice  five  April-times 

Had  kissed  her  when  she  died. 


WHAT   AN   ANGEL   SAID. 

I  DREAMED  of  love ;  I  thought  the  air 
Was  glowing  with  the  smile  of  God  — 
An  angel  told  me  all  the  sod 
Was  beauteous  with  answered  prayer  — 
I  looked,  and  lo !  the  flowers  were  there. 

I  could  not  tell  what  place  to  tread, 
So  thick  the  yellow  violets  run ; 
Along  the  brooks,  and  next  the  sun 

The  woods  were  like  a  garden  bed ; 

And  whispering  soft,  the  angel  said, 

(While  in  his  own  he  took  my  hand,) 
"Dear  soul,  thou  art  not  in  a  dream. 
All  things  are  truly  what  they  seem  — 
Thou  art  but  newly  come  to  land, 
Throusrh  shadows  and  across  the  sand." 


'J3' 


I  felt  the  light  wings  cross  my  face. 
My  heavy  eyes  I  felt  unclose, 
And  from  my  dreaming  I  arose. 
If  I  had  dreamed,  and  by  God's  grace, 
Saw  glory  in  the  angel's  place. 


278  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

I  LITTLE  care  to  write  her  praise, 

In  truth  I  little  care  that  she 
Should  seem  as  pure  in  all  her  ways, 

To  others,  as  she  seems  to  me. 

At  morn  a  sparrow's  note  we  heard. 

His  shadow  fell  across  her  bed, 
She  smiled  and  listened  to  the  bird ; 

And  when  the  evening  twilight  red. 

Fell  with  the  dew,  he  came  again, 
And  perching  on  the  nearest  bough. 

Higher  and  wilder  sang  the  strain  — 
She  did  not  smile  to  hear  him  now. 

Many  and  many  years,  the  light 

Thin  moonbeams,  sheets  for  her  have  spread; 
And  scented  clovers,  red  and  white. 

Have  made  the  fringes  of  her  bed. 

Small  care  for  sitting  in  the  sun 
Have  I  —  small  care  to  war  with  fate : 

The  wine  and  wormwood  are  as  one, 
Since  thou  art  dead,  my  pretty  mate. 


THE   WORKERS. 

Who  are  seers  and  who  are  sages  ? 

They  who  know  and  understand  - 
Not  the  sphinxes  of  old  ages, 

With  their  dead  eyes  in  the  sand. 

Every  worm  beside  you  creeping, 

Every  insect  flying  well, 
Every  pebble  in  earth's  keeping. 

Has  a  history  to  tell. 


LOOKING  BACK.  279 

The  small  homely  flower  that  's  lying 

In  your  pathway,  may  contain 
Some  elixir,  which  the  dying 

Generations  sought  in  vain. 

In  the  stone  that  waits  the  turning 

Of  some  curious  hand,  from  sight 
Fiery  atoms  may  be  burning. 

That  would  till  the  world  with  light. 

Let  us  then,  in  reverence  bowing, 

Honor  most  of  all  mankind, 
Such  as  keep  their  great  thoughts  plowing 

Deepest  in  the  held  of  mind. 


LOOKING   BACK. 

I  HAVE  been  looking  back  to-day 
Upon  life's  April  promise  hours, 

Its  June  is  with  me  now,  but  May 
Left  all  her  blushes  in  the  flowers. 

A  still  and  sober  gladness  reigns 

Where  there  was  hopeful  mirth,  ere  while 

Hardly  the  soul  ilTS  wisdom  gains  — 
Through  suffering  we  learn  to  smile. 

The  heart  that  went  out  beating  wild 
With  visions  of  the  bliss  to  be, 

Has  come  back  weary,  like  a  child 
That  sits  beside  the  mother's  knee. 

The  vision  of  a  coming  bliss  — 

A  bliss  from  earth  that  never  springs  — 
In  youth  was  but  the  chrysalis 

That  time  has  gloritied  with  wings. 

And  if  I  see  no  longer  here 

The  splendor  of  a  transient  good, 

A  cloud  has  left  my  atmosphere. 

And  heaven  is  shining  where  it  stood. 


280  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

HYMN. 


Bow,  angels,  from  your  glorious  state 

If  e'er  on  earth  you  trod, 
And  lead  me  through  the  golden  gate 

Of  prayer,  unto  my  God. 

I  long  to  gather  from  the  Word 
The  meaning,  full  and  clear. 

To  build  unto  my  gracious  Lord 
A  tabernacle  here. 

Against  my  face  the  tempests  beat, 
The  snows  are  falling  chill, 

When  shall  I  hear  the  voice  so  sweet. 
Commanding,  Peace,  be  still ! 

The  angels  said,  God  giveth  you 
His  love  —  what  more  is  ours  ? 

Even  as  the  cisterns  of  the  dew 
O'erflow  upon  the  flowers. 

His  grace  descends ;  and,  as  of  old, 
He  walks  with  men  apart, 

Keeping  the  promise,  as  foretold, 
With  all  the  pure  in  heart. 


LEILIA.=* 


Gone  from  us  hast  thou,  in  thy  girlish  hours. 
What  time  the  tenderest  blooms  of  summer  cease 

In  thy  young  bosom  bearing  life's  sweet  flowers 
To  the  good  city  of  eternal  peace. 

In  the  soft  stops  of  silver  singing  rain. 
Faint  be  the  falling  of  the  pale  red  light 

O'er  thy  meek  slumber,  wrapt  away  from  pain 
In  the  fair  robes  of  dainty  bridal  white. 

*  A  revision  of  "  Leila,"  printed  in  the  volume  of  1850. 


MILNA    GREY.  281 

Seven  nights  the  stars  have  wandered  through  the  blue, 
Since  thou  to  larger,  holier  life  wert  born; 

And  day  as  often,  sandaled  with  gray  dew, 
Has  trodden  out  the  golden  fires  of  morn. 

The  wearying  tumult  of  unending  strife, 

The  jars  that  through  the  heart  discordant  ring, 

Drive  the  dim  current  of  our  mortal  life 

Against  the  shore  where  reigns  unending  spring. 

And  though  I  mourn  for  Leilia,  she  who  died 
When  all  the  tenderest  blossoms  ceased  to  be, 

Her  being's  broken  wave  has  multiplied 
The  stars  that  shine  across  eternity. 


MILNA   GREY. 

Burned  the  blushing  cheek  of  morning 

Soft,  beneath  the  locks  of  Day, 
As  within  his  noble  garden 

Stanley  mused  of  Milna  Grey. 
Heedless  of  the  bright  laburnums 

Raining  on  his  path  in  showers ; 
Of  the  lilacs  faint  and  tender, 

And  the  peach-wands  full  of  flowers ; 
Of  the  red-winged  thrush's  singing ; 

Of  the  wind,  whose  separate  trills 
Broke  the  mists  to  golden  furrows 

Up  and  down  the  peaked  hills  — 
Heedless  of  the  huntsmen  riding 

With  their  hawks  and  hounds  away, 
If  the  lattice  lights  be  darkened 

With  the  locks  of  Milna  Grey. 
"  Ere  the  sun,  so  brightly  rising. 

Dimly  down  the  west  shall  go, 
I  will  tell  her  all  my  story  — 

It  can  add  not  to  my  woe." 

Warmer,  broader,  fell  the  sunshine, 
Birds  and  bees  about  him  flew, 


282  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

And  the  flower-stocks  on  the  borders 

Dript  no  longer  with  the  dew. 
Suddenly  his  wan  cheek  flushes 

And  his  step  turns  half  awaj^ ; 
Slowly  down  the  alder  shadows 

Walks  the  lovely  Milna  Grey ; 
Sadly  then  his  heart  misgave  him, 

And  his  lip  an  utterance  found, 
Only  said,  "  Why,  gentlest  Milna, 

Is  thy  brow  with  sorrow  crowned  ?  " 
Not  as  his,  her  bosom  trembled  — 

Not  as  his,  her  glances  fell, 
As  she  answered,  sweetly,  meekly, 

"  Though  the  tale  be  sad  to  tell ; 
Something  in  the  slips  so  silken 

Fallen  uncurled  adown  thy  cheek  — 
Something  in  thy  blue  eyes,  Stanley, 

Wins  what  else  I  w^ould  not  speak. 
A  bright  path  through  years  of  darkness 

Is  cleft  open  by  thy  smile. 
And  I  feel  life's  blossoms  slipping 

Through  my  fingers  as  erewhile. 
As  my  thoughts  in  pensive  gladness 

Over  barren  reaches  flow 
To  a  shrine  of  w^ondrous  beauty. 

Broken,  ruined  long  ago. 
By  the  gray  w^all  of  the  churchyard 

Where  the  red-stalked  creeper  clings, 
And  the  wild-breeze  in  the  larch-boughs 

Oft  in  summer  stops  and  sings ; 
In  the  rains  of  seven  dim  autumns 

Has  the  throstle  sadly  cried. 
And  the  white  grass  fallen  above,  him, 

Who  to  me  has  never  died. 
Yet  my  love  was  not  as  mortals'. 

In  hope's  sweetest  passion  nursed  — 
Dreams  and  prophecies  forewarned  me 

Of  our  dark  doom  from  the  first. 
Oft  my  lost  one  smiled,  to  soothe  me. 

Saying,  faith  is  strong  to  save. 
And  though  life,  he  knew,  was  turning 

The  dark  furrow  of  the  grave, 
Seemed  he  scarce  to  heed  the  fading 


MILNA    GREY.  283 

Of  the  day,  or  night  hard  by  — 
Folding  down  the  golden  shadows 

Of  love's  twilight  in  our  sky  — 
But,  more  leaning  on  God's  mercy, 

As  the  mortal  fainter  grew. 
Went  he  close  to  death's  still  water, 

And  the  angels  took  him  through. 
Even  as  some  young  bough  of  blossoms 

Stricken  into  pallid  stone, 
Was  my  heart  transformed  thenceforward, 

And  my  nature  left  alone." 

Sorrow  fixed  the  brow  of  Stanley, 

And  his  cheek  grew  white  with  woe, 
As  he  answered  —  oh,  how  sadly  !  — 

"  Milna,  this  was  long  ago. 
Life  is  charmed  —  is  there  nothing 

For  which  thou  would'st  love  recall  — 
Or,  alas,  too  fondly  faithful, 

Hast  thou,  Milna,  buried  all  ? 
Wilt  thou,  when  the  star  of  twilight 

Breaks  in  beauty  through  the  blue. 
Meet  me  here  beneath  the  alders  ? — 

I  would  tell  a  story  too." 

So,  from  out  the  pleasant  garden 

Passed  they,  as  the  lingering  mist 
From  the  eastern  hill-tops  lifted, 

Musing  of  the  twilight  tryst. 
Slowly  to  the  sad,  and  gaily 

To  the  gay,  sped  on  the  hours, 
Till  the  bees  went  humming  homeward 

From  the  softly  closing  flowers ; 
Till  the  daylight  waned  and  faded, 

And  the  sun  grew  large  and  set, 
And  the  rooks  in  long  rows  gathered 

Gloomily  on  the  parapet. 
In  the  blue  wake  of  the  twilight 

Brings  the  star  the  try  sting  hour  — 
On  her  knees  her  white  hands  folded, 

Milna  waits  within  her  bower. 
Scarcely  heeding  how^  the  shadows 

Dark  and  darker  round  her  fall  — 


284  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY, 

Haply  she  but  hears  the  throstle 
Singing  by  the  churchyard  wall ! 

With  the  dews  the  red  laburnums, 
And  the  golden  rods  were  bent, 

But  no  step  disturbed  the  silence, 
And  the  midnight  came  and  went. 

Stanley,  blue-eyed,  gentle  Stanley, 

If  he  liveth,  none  may  say. 
But  within  the  pleasant  garden 

Never  walked  he  from  that  day. 
In  his  stall  his  black  steed  fasted, 

Drooping  lowly  from  his  pride. 
And  his  lithe  hound  stayed  from  trailing, 

Crouching,  whining,  till  he  died. 
And  the  mournful  tears  of  Milna 

Often  for  lost  Stanley  fell, 
As  in  part  she  guessed  the  story 

That  he  never  came  to  tell. 


THE   BETROTHED. 

I  HAVE  acted  as  they  bid  me. 

He  said  that  he  was  bless'd. 
And  the  sweet  seal  of  betrothal 

On  my  forehead  has  been  press'd ; 
But  my  heart  gave  back  no  echo 

To  the  rapture  of  his  bliss. 
And  the  hand  he  clasped  so  fondly 

Was  less  tremulous  than  his. 

They  praise  his  lordly  beauty. 

And  I  know  that  he  is  fair  — 
Oh,  I  always  loved  the  color 

Of  his  sunny  eyes  and  hair ; 
And  though  my  bosom  may  have  held 

A  happier  heart  than  now, 
I  have  told  him  that  I  love  him, 

And  I  cannot  break  the  vow. 


THE   GOOD  ANGEL.  285 

He  called  me  the  fair  lady 

Of  a  castle  o'er  the  seas, 
And  I  thought  about  a  cottage 

Nestled  down  among  the  trees  ; 
And  when  my  cheek  beneath  his  lip 

Blushed  not  nor  turned  aside, 
I  thought  how  once  a  lighter  kiss 

Had  left  it  crimson-dyed. 

What  care  I  for  the  breathing 

Of  wind-harps  among  the  vines  ? 
I  better  love  the  swinging 

Of  the  sleepy  mountain  pines, 
And  to  track  the  timid  rabbit 

In  the  snow  shower  as  I  list. 
Than  to  ride  his  coal-black  hunter 

With  the  hawk  upon  my  wrist. 

Fain  would  I  leave  the  grandeur 

Of  the  oaken-shadowed  lawns. 
And  the  dimly  stretching  forest, 

Where  the  red  roe  leads  her  fawns. 
To  gather  the  blue  thistle 

And  the  fennel's  yellow  bloom, 
Where  frowning  turrets  cumber  not 

The  path  with  gorgeous  gloom. 

Let  them  wreathe  the  bridal  roses 

With  my  tresses  as  they  may  — 
There  are  phantoms  in  my  bosom 

That  I  cannot  keep  away ; 
To  my  heart,  as  to  a  banquet. 

They  are  crowding  pale  and  dread, 
But  I  told  him  that  I  loved  him, 

And  it  cannot  be  unsaid. 


THE   GOOD  AKGEL. 

Like  a  prophetess  of  sorrow 
Dying  day  foretells  the  night. 

And  adown  the  eastern  hill-tops 

Floats  and  falls  the  deep'ning  light ; 


286  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Floats  and  falls  the  light  so  golden 
From  the  full,  uprisen  moon, 

And  the  little  birds  are  nestled 
In  the  bosom  of  young  June. 

I  am  sitting  where  so  often 

I  have  sat  in  summers  gone, 
Down  the  dim  and  solemn  future, 

Fixedly,  gazing,  on  and  on. 
I  can  see  sweet  gleams  of  sunshine 

Drifting  through  a  valley  wide, 
Where  a  thousand  hopes  aforetime  — 

Ventures  of  the  heart  have  died. 

Then  a  phantom  hand  of  darkness 

Comes  between  the  moon  and  I, 
And  the  stars,  like  pallid  spirits, 

Wander,  aimless,  through  the  sky. 
And  the  dreary  winds  about  me, 

Sigh  and  moan  in  under  breath, 
As,  sometimes,  unwary  watchers 

Hold  their  prophecies  of  death. 

Rise  not  like  a  far-off  planet. 

Time  of  beauty  vanished  long, 
Come  not  back,  lost  voice,  to  haunt  me 

Like  a  half -remembered  song. 
And  if  down  the  long,  long  future, 

No  sweet  Eden  smiles  for  me, 
Save  one  from  the  past,  good  angel, 

This  is  all  I  ask  of  thee ! 


MY  feie:n'd  and  I. 

March  is  piping  Springtime's  praises. 

Night  by  night  the  new  moon  fills  — 
Soon  the  golden-hearted  daisies 

Will  be  over  all  the  hills. 
Oh !  the  winds  are  dreary,  dreary  ! 

'T  is  a  long  and  lonesome  night : 
And  her  heart,  she  said,  was  weary  — 

Weary,  waiting  for  the  light. 


OUT  BY   THE    WATERS.  287 

Soft  the  lovely  Suiimier  weather 

Bloweth  up  the  southern  heights, 
When  the  blue-bell  in  the  heather 

Blooms  beneath  our  lattice  lights. 
Dismally  the  winds  are  crying; 

I  am  reft,  she  said,  and  lorn, 
And  my  heart  is  sad  with  sighing, 

Sighing  for  the  distant  morn. 

Blithely  will  the  birds  keep  singing, 

Till  the  Autumn,  sad  of  mien. 
Comes  his  yellow  chaplet  swinging, 

'Gainst  the  Summer's  robe  of  green. 
Drearily  the  wind  is  blowing  — 

Long  and  lonely  is  the  night ; 
Keep  me  not,  she  said,  from  going  — 

Going  where  't  is  always  light. 

Blisses,  hope  has  not  foretasted, 

Fill  with  sweetnesses  the  skies ; 
There  young  love  is  never  blasted  — 

There  the  Summer  never  dies. 
Have  the  rough  winds  ceased  their  blowing  — 

Doth  the  morning  break?  she  said; 
The  life-tide  was  outward  flowing  — 

She  w^as  dying —  she  was  dead. 


OUT   BY   THE   WATEES. 

The  hedges  of  roses  and  islands  of  gold 
Have  floated  and  faded  away  from  the  sky, 

And  I  long,  as  their  vanishing  glow  I  behold. 
For  a  home  where  the  beautiful  never  shall  die : 

For  a  home,  where  the  children  of  sorrow  shall  cease 
To  mourn  over  dreams  that  are  broken  and  gone; 

Where  the  wings  of  the  soul  may  be  folded  in  peace 
By  the  rivers  that  always  flow  shiningly  on ! 


288  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

I  'm  sitting  alone  in  a  deep  bosomed  vale, 

On  a  bank  of  fresh  moss  that  hangs  over  a  rill ; 

And  catching  at  times,  from  the  wings  of  the  gale 
The  laughter  of  children  at  play  on  the  hill. 

For  the  wandering  spirit  of  beauty  is  back 

With  fragrance  and  verdure  for  hill-top  and  tree, 

Leaving  sunshine  and  blossoms,  and  birds  on  her  track, 
And  filling  the  young  heart  with  innocent  glee. 

I  forget  the  dark  lessons  of  history's  page 

In  listening  to  footsteps  so  careless  and  light : 

I  forget  the  deep  plottings  of  manhood  and  age  — 
Their  scorning  of  weakness,  and  trampling  of  right : 

There  's  a  cloud  on  the  moon !  but  the  light  is  so  sweet, 
('T  is  one  of  the  Spring-time's  most  beautiful  eves) 

I  can  tell  every  blossom  that  lies  at  my  feet, 

And  the  birds  that  are  up  o'er  my  head  in  the  leaves. 

Oh  I  love  to  be  out  by  the  waters  at  night 

As  they  trip  to  the  sea  on  the  bright-tinted  sands : 

And  deem  their  glad  billows  are  children  of  light 
With  songs  on  their  lips  and  the  stars  in  their  hands. 


LOVE'S  CHAPEL. 

As  if  soft  odors  from  the  vales  of  bliss 

Pressed  open,  dear  one,  the  pearl  gates  above, 

Came  in  the  Hybla  sweetness  of  thy  kiss. 
The  gentle,  gentle  meaning  of  thy  love. 

Then  felt  I  as  some  mortal  maid  who  lies 

Beneath  a  rose-roof  bower  that  sunshine  warms, 

Who,  having  charmed  a  god  from  the  blue  skies, 
First  feels  his  gold  locks  trembling  in  her  arms. 

Haste !  bring  me  river-lilies  pale  as  snow, 

Meek  wood-flowers  faintly  streaked  with  jet  and  blue. 
Blush-roses  gathered  where  the  west  winds  blow, 

And  little  moss-cups  dripping  wet  with  dew. 


FALLEN  GENIUS.  289 

And  when  the  silver  ring  of  the  new  moon 
Hangs  o'er  the  dark  woods  sloping  to  the  sea, 

When  hope  lies  dallying  in  the  lap  of  June, 
I  '11  twine  a  chapel  for  my  love  and  me. 

A  quiet  chapel  'neath  the  quiet  boughs, 

Whose  dusky  beauty  makes  the  days  like  eves, 

Where  kneeling  softly  we  may  make  our  vows 
In  the  pale  light  like  broken  lily  leaves. 

Feeding  my  heart  with  dreams  of  that  dear  hour, 

Nor  pain,  nor  alien  sorrow,  nor  dim  fear 
Shall  cross  the  threshold  of  our  chapel  bower. 

Till  that  sweet  time,  oh  gentle  love,  be  here ! 

As  suddenly  the  brown  leaf-buried  root, 

When  the  spring  thaw  brings  down  the  genial  shower, 
Into  the  blue  air  lifts  its  tender  shoot. 

Crowned  with  the  beauty  of  its  perfect  flower : 

So  is  my  hope,  long  buried  under  fears. 

And  walled  from  sunshine  by  the  helpless  night, 

Crowned  with  the  beauty  of  its  primal  years, 
Uplifted  softly  to  the  loving  light. 


FALLEN   GENIUS. 

No  tears  for  him  !  —  he  saw  by  faith  sublime 

Through  the  wan  shimmer  of  life's  wasted  flame, 

Across  the  green  hills  of  the  future  time, 
The  golden  breaking  of  the  morn  of  fame. 

Faded  by  the  diviner  life,  and  worn. 

The  dust  has  fallen  away,  and  ye  but  see 

The  ruins  of  the  house  wherein  were  borne 
The  birth-pangs  of  an  immortality. 

His  great  life  from  the  wondrous  life  to  be. 

Clasped  the  bright  splendors  that  no  sorrow  mars. 

As  some  pale,  shifting  column  of  the  sea. 
Mirrors  the  awful  beauty  of  the  stars. 


290  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

What  was  Love's  lily  pressure,  what  the  light 

Of  its  pleased  smile,  that  a  chance  breath  may  chill ! 

His  soul  was  mated  with  the  winds  of  night, 
And  wandered  through  the  universe  at  will. 

Oft  in  his  heart  its  stormy  passion  woke, 

Yet  from  its  bent  his  soul  no  more  was  stirred, 

Til  an  is  the  broad  green  bosom  of  the  oak 
By  the  light  flutter  of  the  summer  bird. 

His  loves  were  of  forbidden  realms,  unwrought 
In  poet's  rhyme,  the  music  of  his  themes, 

Hovering  about  the  watch-fires  of  his  thought, 
On  the  dim  borders  of  the  land  of  dreams. 

For  while  his  hand  with  daring  energy 

Fed  the  slow  fire  that,  burning,  must  consume, 

The  ravishing  joys  of  unheard  harmony 
Beat  like  a  living  pulse  within  the  tomb. 

Pillars  of  fire  that  wander  through  life's  night, 
Children  of  genius !  ye  are  doomed  to  be, 

In  the  embrace  of  your  far-reaching  light, 
Locking  the  radiance  of  eternity. 


DYING. 


Light  comes  no  more  to  thy  weary  eyes 
When  moons  are  filling,  or  morn  unfolds ; 

Thy  feet  have  struck  on  the  path  that  lies 
Bordering  the  Eden  that  faith  beholds. 

Why  dost  thou  linger  and  backward  gaze 
To  the  hills  now  lying  so  faint  and  far. 

Where  plowing  a  furrow  through  golden  haze. 
Came  up  the  beautiful  morning  star. 

That  star  that  paled  in  the  sky  and  fled, 
Ere  yet  the  blossoms  of  spring  were  blown; 

The  stormy  wings  of  the  night  o'erspread 
The  mists  of  glory  that  round  it  shone. 


HARRIET.  291 

But  though  the  light  of  the  day  is  gone, 
The  valley  of  shadows  is  bright  with  dew, 

And  where  the  river  of  death  moans  on. 

The  angels  are  waiting  to  take  thee  through. 

I  think  of  the  visions  of  bliss  we  wove 
In  the  faded  beauty  of  years  o'erflown, 

That  thou  hast  been  crowned  with  a  crown  of  love, 
And  I  am  a  dreamer  of  dreams  alone. 

I  think  of  the  children  that  climb  thy  knees, 
And  how  dim  the  light  of  the  hearth  will  be, 

In  the  time  that  prophecy  plainly  sees 

When  the  circle  is  narrowed  away  from  thee : 

And  question  the  bodiless  shapes  of  air 
That  hover  about  when  the  soul  is  sad, 

To  know  why  the  angel  of  death  should  spare 
The  worn  and  weary  instead  of  the  glad. 

But  they  answer  not,  and  I  only  know. 
Seeing  thee  wasted  and  pale  with  pain. 

Where  the  rivers  of  Paradise  sweetly  flow, 
They  never  say  I  am  sick  again. 


HAREIET. 


Down  the  west  the  gust  is  rushing 
Through  the  twilight's  cloudy  bars, 

And  the  crescent  moon  is  pushing 
Her  slim  horn  between  the  stars. 

Now  the  winter  night  is  falling 
O'er  the  hills  of  crisped  snow. 

But  she  hears,  she  says,  the  calling 
Of  an  angel,  and  must  go. 

She  is  pale  and  very  weary. 
But  her  thin  lips  never  moan. 

And  though  night  is  chill  and  dreary, 
Fears  she  not  to  go  alone. 


292  POEMS   BY  ALICE    CARY. 

Surely,  when  the  shroud  shall  cover 
Her  meek  beauty,  death  subdued, 

Troin  his  eyes  who  ivas  her  lover, 
He  will  love  her  angelhood. 

He  that,  for  the  wine-cup's  kisses 
Sold  away  her  gentle  love  — 

Not  alas,  for  holy  blisses. 
Earthly,  or  of  heaven  above. 

Morning  sadly,  dimly  presses 
Up  the  orient,  and  the  few 

Belated  stars  their  yellow  tresses 
Gather  from  her  pathway  blue. 

Broader  now  the  light  is  falling, 
And  the  day  comes  on  and  on, 

As  the  angel  skyward  calling, 
Calls  no  longer  —  she  is  gone. 


FALMOUTH   HALL. 

'T  WAS  just  a  year  at  the  summer's  tide, 

And  DOW  was  the  leaflet's  fall. 
Since  the  lady  Camilla,  a  blushing  bride, 
In  the  graceful  beauty  of  matron  pride, 
First  came  to  the  Falmouth  Hall. 

The  air  was  chilly,  the  winds  were  high, 

Lifting  and  drifting  the  leaves ; 
The  hills  were  bare,  for  the  ripened  rye 
In  the  golden  gales  of  the  warm  July 
Was  bound  into  silver  sheaves. 

Sir  Philip  is  mounting  his  courser  fleet, 

Though  dismally  falls  the  night, 
Nor  heeds  at  all  if  his  glances  meet 
The  locks  of  the  lady,  the  pale  and  sweet. 
That  darken  the  lattice-light. 


FALMOUTH  HALL.  293 

The  lady  was  lovely  —  her  lord  was  true, 

As  the  maids  of  the  mansion  say, 
But  cold  as  sleet  were  his  words,  and  few. 
As  he  struck  through  the  fall  of  the  night,  and  flew 

From  the  home  of  his  sires  away. 

Hath  he  gone  to  the  field  of  the  holy  war  ? 
He  hath  nor  helmet,  nor  sword,  nor  star. 

Doth  he  go  as  a  jousting  knight? 
And  when  will  he  tighten  his  flowing  rein 
At  the  gate  of  the  Falmouth  Hall  again, 

And  the  heart  of  Camilla  be  light  ? 

'T  was  the  middle  watch  by  the  castle  clock, 
'T  was  the  middle  watch,  and  the  plumed  cock 

Crew  shrilly  as  cock  may  crow. 
When  a  voice  to  my  lady  did  sweetly  call, 
Who  lovingly  leant  from  the  castle  wall, 

As  if  to  her  lord  below. 

'T  was  the  middle  watch  of  the  chilly  night, 

In  the  time  of  the  leaflet's  fall, 
Wlien  my  lady  appeared  in  her  robes  of  white, 
And  the  watch-dog  woke  as  in  sudden  fright. 

And  howled  from  the  Falmouth  Hall. 

But  the  tale  may  be  of  the  lowly  born. 
For  the  lip  of  the  lady  was  curled  in  scorn 

At  the  breath  of  the  lightest  word, 
Though  the  picture  that  lay  on  her  heart  at  morn 

Was  not  of  her  absent  lord. 


The  legends  of  Falmouth  mansion  say 
Sir  Philip  perished  in  some  dark  fray. 

For  a  bird,  with  a  blood-red  plume. 
Oft  came  in  the  mists  of  the  morning  gray 
Where  the  ancient  lord  of  the  mansion  lay, 

And  sang  on  the  cross  of  the  tomb. 


294  POEMS   BY  ALICE    GARY. 

SOXG. 

Come  to  my  bosom,  thou  beautiful  bird, 

My  soul  with  thy  seraph-like  singing  is  stirred : 

Say'st  thou  we  never  more,  never  shall  part  — 

Light  of  the  wilderness,  joy  of  my  heart  ? 

Are  thy  capricious  wings  never  to  fly  ? 

Sing  me  the  blessed  words  —  sing  till  I  die ! 

Oh,  I  have  thought  of  thee,  long  weary  years, 
Nursing  thy  memory  only  with  tears ; 
My  heart  dreaming  dreams  of  thee,  sweeter  than  dew. 
Beating,  where  thousands  were,  only  for  you : 
Said'st  thou  thou  lovest  me  in  thy  soft  strain  ? 
Tell  me  the  blessed  w^ords,  tell  them  again ! 

Spring  in  her  robe  of  Light,  Summer  with  flowers. 
Autumn  with  golden  fruit,  Winter's  lone  hours ; 
These  on  their  fleeting  wings  came  and  went  by, 
Finding  their  welcoming  only  a  sigh. 
Say'st  thou  thou  lovest  me  fondly  and  true  ? 
Tell  me  the  blessed  words  —  tell  them  anew. 

The  earth,  like  an  angel,  sits  mantled  in  light. 

The  skies  are  grown  bluer,  the  stars  are  more  bright ; 

And  leaves  by  the  breezes  are  freshlier  stirred, 

Because  of  thy  singing,  my  beautiful  bird  : 

Surely  such  happiness  soon  will  be  o'er  — 

Tell  me  the  blessed  words,  tell  them  once  more ! 

Earth  henceforth  has  nothing  of  sorrow  for  me ; 
My  bosom,  sweet  minstrel,  thy  pillow  shall  be  ; 
The  goldenest  morning  that  ever  has  smiled, 
Were  dim  in  thy  presence,  young  fawn  of  the  wild : 
Oh,  if  your  heart  for  me  beat  as  you  say,    . 
Tell  me  the  blessed  words,  tell  them  for  aye ! 


LIVE   AND   HELP   LIVE. 

Mighty  in  faith  and  hope,  why  art  thou  sad ! 

Sever  the  green  withes,  look  up  and  be  glad  ! 

See  all  around  thee,  below  and  above, 

The  beautiful,  bountiful  gifts  of  God's  love ! 


TO  ELMINA.  295 

What  though  onr  hearts  beat  with  death's  sullen  waves  ? 
What  though  the  green  sod  is  broken  with  graves  ? 
The  sweet  hopes  that  never  shall  fade  from  their  bloom, 
Make  their  dim  birth-chamber  down  in  the  tomb ! 

Parsee  or  Christianman,  bondman  or  free, 
Loves  and  humanities  still  are  for  thee ; 
Some  little  good  every  day  to  achieve, 
Some  slighted  spirit  no  longer  to  grieve. 

In  the  tents  of  the  desert,  alone  on  the  sea. 
On  the  far-away  hills  with  the  starry  Chaldee ; 
Condemned  and  in  prison,  dishonored,  reviled, 
God's  arm  is  around  thee,  and  thou  art  his  child. 

Mine  be  the  lip  ever  truthful  and  bold ; 

Mine  be  the  heart,  never  careless  nor  cold ; 

A  faith  humbly  trustful,  a  life  free  from  blame  — 

All  else  is  unstable  as  flax  in  the  flame. 

And  while  the  soft  skies  are  so  starry  and  blue ; 
And  while  the  wide  earth  is  so  fresh  with  God's  dew, 
Though  all  around  me  the  sad  sit  and  sigh, 
I  will  be  glad  that  I  live  and  must  die. 


TO   ELMINA. 


Soft  dweller  in  the  sunset  light. 

How  pleads  my  heavy  heart  for  thee. 

That  some  good  angel's  hand  to-night 
Gather  thy  sweet  love  back  from  me. 

For  down  the  lonesome  way  I  tread, 
No  summer  flower  will  ever  bloom  — 

All  hope  is  lost,  all  faith  is  dead  — 

Thou  must  not,  canst  not,  share  my  doom. 

Nay,  let  me  send  no  shadow  chill 

To  the  blue  beauty  of  thy  sky ; 
Fain  would  I  shape  my  song  to  still 

Thy  sad  fears  like  a  lullaby. 


296  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Not  in  thy  memory  would  I  seem 
As  one  that  woe  and  sorrow  claim  — 

Think  of  me,  dear  one,  as  a  dream 
That  faded  when  the  morning  came. 


HOMESICK. 


The  lamps  are  all  lighted  —  how  brightly  they  gleam  ! 
The  music  is  flowing,  soft  stream  upon  stream, 
While  youths  and  fair  maidens,  untroubled  with  care, 
Half  blush  as  they  whisper,  How  happy  we  are ! 

Well,  braid  up  your  tresses  with  gems  as  you  may, 
My  light  through  the  dances,  and  smile  and  be  gay ; 
The  glow  of  the  roses,  the  flow  of  the  wine, 
Are  not  for  a  bosom  so  weary  as  mine. 

0  give  me  a  cottage  half-hid  in  the  leaves. 

With  vines  on  the  windows,  and  birds  on  the  eaves, 

And  a  heart  there  whose  warm  tide  shall  flow  like  the 

sea. 
But  never,  0  never,  for  any  but  me  ! 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLASCALA.* 

A    ROMANCE    OF    THE    GOLDEN    AGE    OF    TEZCUCO. 

White-limbed  and  quiet,  by  her  nightly  tomb 
Sat  the  young  Day,  new-risen ;  at  her  feet, 
Wrapt  loose  together,  lay  the  l3urial  clouds ; 
And  on  her  forehead,  like  the  unsteady  crown 
Of  a  late  Avinged  immortal,  flamed  the  sun. 
All  seasons  have  their  beauty :  drowsy  Noon, 
Winking  along  the  hilltops  lazily ; 
And  fiery  sandaled  Eve,  that  bards  of  eld. 
Writing  their  sweet  rhymes  on  the  aloe  leaves,t 
Paused  reverently  to  worship,  as  she  went, 

*  The  notes  affixed  to  this  poem  are  Alice  Gary's. 

t  The  ancient  MSS.  of  the  Mexicans  werefor  the  most  part  on  a  fine  fabric  made 
of  leaves  of  the  aloe.  It  resembled  the  Egyptian  papyrus,  and  was  more  soft  and 
beautiful  than  parchment.    The  written  leaves  were  commonly  done  up  in  volumes. 

—  Prescott. 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLA  SC  A  LA.  297 

Like  a  worn  gleaner,  with  a  sheaf  of  corn 

Pressed  to  her  bosom,  lessening,  clown  the  west ; 

And  thou,  dusk  huntress  !  through  whose  heavy  locks 

Shimmer  the  icy  arrows  of  the  stars  — 

About  whose  solemn  brow  once  blinded  Faith 

Wound  the  red  shadows  of  the  carnival, 

Till  o'er  its  flower-crowned  holocaust  waxed  pale 

The  constellation  of  the  Pleiades  —  * 

Fair  art  thou:  but  more  fair  the  rising  day! 

And  day  was  fully  up :  Along  the  hills, 
Black  with  a  wilderness  of  ebony, 
Walked  the  wild  heron ;  and  in  Chalco's  wave 
Waded  the  scarlet  egret,  while  the  Light, 
Flitting  along  the  cloisters  of  the  wood, 
Softly  took  up  the  rosaries  of  dew ; 
From  stealthy  trailing  on  the  hunter's  path 
The  ocelot  drew  back,  and  in  her  lair 
Growled  hungry,  lapping  with  hot  tongue  her  cubs  ; 
While  the  iguana,  gray  and  rough  with  warts, 
Checkt  round  with  streaky  gold,  and  cloven  tongued, 
Crept  sluggish  up  the  rocks  —  a  poison  beast ; 
And  the  slim  blue-necked  snake  of  Xalapa 
Lifted  its  limber  folds  into  the  light. 
From  his  black  cirque  of  rocks,  stood  up  alone 
The  monarch  of  the  mountains  ;  t  on  his  breast, 
The  fiery  foldings  of  his  garment,  bracked 
And  seamed  with  ashes,  and  his  gray  head  bare, 

*  On  the  termination  of  the  great  cycle  of  fifty  years,  says  Prescott,  there  was 
celebrated  a  remarkable  festival.  The  cycle  would  end  in  the  latter  part  of  Decem- 
ber, and  as  the  dreary  season  of  the  winter  solstice  approached,  and  the  diminished 
Hght  of  day  gave  melancholy  presage  of  its  quick  extinction,  their  apprehensions 
increased  ;  and  as  the  last  days  arrived,  they  abandoned  themselves  to  despair.  The 
holy  fires  were  sufi'ered  to  go  out  in  their  temples,  and  none  were  lighted  in  their 
dwellings.  Everything  was  thrown  into  disorder,  for  the  coming  of  the  evil  genii, 
who  were  to  descend  on,  and  desolate,  the  earth.  On  the  evening  of  the  last  day  a 
procession  of  priests  moved  toward  a  lofty  mountain,  two  leagues  from  the  city. 
On  reaching  its  summit,  the  procession  paused  till  midnight,  when,  as  the  con- 
stellation of  the  Pleiades  approached  the  zenith,  the  tiew  fire  was  kindled  on  the 
wounded  breast  of  the  victim.     Southej"  describes  the  scene,  in  Madoc: 

"On  his  bare  breast  the  cedar  boughs  are  laid  ; 
On  his  bare  breast  dry  sedge  and  odorous  gums 
Laid  ready  to  receive  the  sacred  spark, 
And  herald  the  ascending  Sun, 
Upon  his  living  altar." 

The  flame  was  soon  communicated  to  a  funeral  pile,  on  which  the  body  of  the 
slaughtered  captive  was  thrown,  and  as  the  light  streamed  toward  heaven,  shouts 
of  joy  and  triumph  burst  from  the  countless  multitudes.  Thirteen  days  were  given 
up  to  festivity.  It  was  the  national  Jubilee  of  the  .\ztecs.  like  that  of  the  Romans 
or  Etruscans,  which  few  alive  had  seen  before,  or  could  expect  to  see  again. 

t  Pojahtecate. 


298  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

The  while,  with  crystals  rough,  Chinantla's  pride,* 

Sat,  chiefest  of  a  shining  brotherhood, 

His  turquoise  eyes  fast  shut  'neath  mossy  lids, 

Regardless  of  the  clamorous  sea  that  lay 

Twining  her  wild  green  hair  about  his  feet, 

Betwixt  her  heavy  sobs,  for  love  of  him  — 

Flat  all  her  monstrous  length  along  the  sands. 

Joyous,  the  ranks  of  cedars  and  of  pines 

Shook  their  thick  limbs  together,  as  the  winds 

Toiled  past  them  toward  the  red  gaps  of  the  hills. 

Through  which  the  Morning  came,  and,  where,  for  hours 

Tanning  her  cheeks  with  kisses,  they  would  stay. 

But  to  the  hopeless  heaven  itself  were  sad : 

The  darkened  senses  fail  to  apprehend 

The  elements  of  beauty ;  the  dull  gaze 

Is  introverted  to  the  world  within, 

Whose  all  is  ruins  —  seeing  never  more 

The  all-serene  and  blessed  harmony 

That  lives  and  breathes  through  Nature  :  to  the  air 

Giving  its  motion  and  its  melody, 

The  trees  their  separate  colors,  the  wild  brooks 

Their  silver  syllables,  'gainst  fruitless  stones 

Joining  bright  grasses,  knitting  goldenly 

The  clear  white  of  the  day's  departing  train 

Into  the  blank,  black  border  of  the  night. 

Dew  raining  on  the  dust,  and  on  the  heart 

The  comfortable  influences  of  love. 

So,  things  which  if  left  single,  had  been  bad, 

Grow  in  affiliation,  excellent. 

Mindless  of  all  the  beauty  of  the  time. 
Prone  on  the  wasting  ruins  of  a  shrine 
Beared  by  the  priests  of  IIometeuli,t  long 
Gone  down  in  still  processions  to  the  dark. 
Lay  fallen  Hualco  —  his  unmailed  arms 
Prostrate  along  the  dust,  while,  like  live  coals, 
His  eyes,  no  longer  shadowed  by  a  crown, 
Deep  in  their  blue  and  famine-sunken  rings 
Burned  hungry  for  the  life  of  Maxtala,J  — • 

*  Pojahtecate. 

t  The  general  name  by  which,  according  to  Lord  Kingsborough,  the  deity  was 
known  to  the  Mexicans. 

X  Maxtala,  Maxtlaton,  or  Maxtla,  was  successor  of  the  Tepanec  conqueror,  and 
his  tyranny  Avas  evinced  first  against  the  son  of  the  defeated  and  slain  sovereign, 
whom  he  made  an  exile  and  a  fugitive. 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLA  SC ALA.  2'J9 

In  wrappings  of  the  sunrise  purples,  grand, 

In  awful  desolation,  glorious. 

Is  not  the  eagle  hovering  toward  the  sun 

In  broken  flutterings  to  keep  its  hold 

Up  level  with  the  mountains,  more  sublime 

Than  in  the  steady  flight  of  stronger  wings  ? 

Thus  in  his  exile,  thus  in  solitude, 

His  manly  port  was  nobler  than  a  king's. 

Not  his  the  vain  and  groveling  lust  of  power 

That  rounds  the  ambitious  aims  of  selflshness: 

His  broken  people  he  would  fain  have  built 

Into  a  mighty  column,  that  should  stand, 

The  beacon  of  the  unborn  centuries ; 

From  the  blind  statues  where  Idolatry 

Sunk  tleep  her  bleeding  forehead  in  the  dust, 

He  would  have  stript  the  wreaths  voluminous. 

And  on  the  altar  of  the  living  God, 

Laid  them,  a  broidery  for  the  robe  of  faith. 

As  Thought  went  searching  through  his  soul,  his  face 

Now  with  the  piteous  pallor  of  despair 

Was  overspread,  and  now  was  all  transformed 

Into  the  stormy  beauty  of  roused  hate. 

Such  change  is  seen  when  o'er  some  buried  fire 

The  gust  shoves  heavy,  and  the  quickened  sparks 

Burn  red  together  in  the  ashen  ground. 

Fragments  of  temples,  sacred  to  the  rites 

Of  the  departed  Aztecs,  round  him  lay, 

Lapsing  to  common  dust ;  and,  great  and  still, 

AVith  snowy  mantle  blown  along  the  clouds, 

Iztacihuatla  *  listened  to  the  stars. 

And  cast  the  terrible  horoscope  of  storms. 

From  its  rough  rim  of  rocks  stretching  away. 

Dark,  to  the  unknown  distance,  lay  the  sea, 

AYhere  that  lost  god  t  took  refuge,  whose  black  beard 

Heavy  with  kisses  of  the  drowning  waves. 

Back  from  his  wizard  skiff  of  serpent  skins 

*  Called  afterwards  by  the  Spaniards,  Sierra  Nevada. 

t  Quetzalcoatl.  god  of  the  air.  who  visited  the  earth  to  instruct  the  people  in  the 
arts  of  civilization.  Incurnn<?the  wrath  of  one  of  the  principal  pods,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  abandon  the  country,  and  as  he  went  toward  the  sea,  he  stopped  at  Cholula, 
where  a  temple  was  dedicated  to  his  worship,  of  which  there  are  still  gigantic  ruins, 
regarded  as  among  the  most  interesting  relics  of  Me.xican  antiquity.  On  the  shores 
of  the  gulf  he  took  leave  of  his  followers,  entered  his  wizard  skiff  of  serpent  skins, 
and  embarking  for  Tlapalan,  was  never  heard  of  again.  He  was  large  and  fair,  with 
long  black  hair  and  a  flowing  beard.  See  Prescott,  and  all  the  Spanish  writers  who 
have  written  of  the  Mexican  mythology. 


300  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Dragged,  as  he  sailed  for  fabulous  Tlapalan. 

A  prince,  and  yet  a  dweller  in  the  woods 

So  long,  that  in  his  path  the  fiercest  wolves 

Walked  tame  as  with  their  mates,  and  o'er  his  head 

Howled  that  strange  beast  *  that  to  his  fellows  cries 

Till  they  devour  the  feast  himself  tastes  not ; 

And  flying  rats  gnawed  their  repasts,  hard  by, 

From  tawny  barks  of  oily  trees,  or  made 

With  black  and  wrinkled  wings  the  sunshine  dusk ! 

Cool  in  the  shadows  of  the  mountain  palm. 

The  white  stag  rested,  fearless  of  his  step, 

And  the  black  alco,  melancholy,  dumb, 

Fixed  his  sad  eyes  upon  him  as  he  passed, 

And,  sluggish,  wallowing  in  his  watery  trough, 

His  loose  mane  gray  with  brine,  the  amyztli,t 

Eegardless  of  a  kinglier  presence,  lay. 

But  to  Hualco  it  was  all  the  same 

Whether  the  music  of  the  Awakener, 

Starting  at  twilight,  rung  along  the  woods. 

Or  whether  Silence,  fed  of  dreams  alone. 

Pressed  the  sweet  echoes  back  to  solitude : 

Whether  the  ebony  and  cherry  trees 

Spread  over  him  their  cool  and  tent-like  shade, 

And  pillows  of  the  ceiba  down  lay  white 

Upon  his  bed  of  moss,  or  whether  hot 

And  sharp  against  his  face,  its  iron  leaves 

The  mirapanda  thrust :  To  husk  the  sheathes 

From  the  sweet  fruitage  of  the  plant  of  light. 

Or,  starved,  to  climb  the  rugged  steeps  wherein 

The  shelves  of  unsunned  stone  were  folded  full 

Of  slimy  lodgers,  were  to  him  as  one. 

A  bright  bud,  broken  from  a  royal  tree 
And  planted  in  the  desert,  how  shall  I 
Sing  his  strange  story  fitly,  and  so  make 
A  new  moon  in  the  sky  of  poesy  ? 
The  bards  of  fair  Tezcuco  long  ago 
Won  from  the  mountains  where  he  hid,  forlorn. 
Treasures  of  beauty  shining  still  along 
The  dreary  ways  poetic  pilgrims  go. 
Like  fountains  roofed  with  rainbows  —  making  all 
His  wrongs  and  toils,  in  cloudy  exile  borne, 

*  The  ocotochtli,  of  whom  this  fable  is  related  by  Hernandez, 
t  The  sea-lion. 


THE  MAIDEN   OF   TLA  SC  A  LA.  301 

The  brief  eclipse  of  the  most  glorious  day 
That  ever  shone  along  the  Aztec  hills. 

While  in  the  broidery  of  a  baby  king 
Yet  swathed,  unconscious,  all  the  lovely  maids 
From  Actolan  to  Champala  had  come, 
And  from  their  girdles  loosening  the  pearls 
And  amethysts,  had  left  them  at  his  feet, 
And,  for  his  beauty,  kissed  him  as  he  slept ; 
Praying  the  gods  to  spare  from  breaking,  long, 
The  chain  of  precious  beads  then  newly  hung 
About  the  empire's  neck.     Ill-fated  prince ! 
AVhen  the  glad  music  sounding  at  his  birth 
Was  muffled  by  disaster,  love's  brief  day 
Waned  to  untimely  twilight,  his  bare  arm 
(The  tiring  of  his  royalty  rent  off) 
Must  cleave  its  way  alone,  or  wither  so ! 

Yet  was  he  not  ill-fated :  when  we  see 
The  purposes  God  puts  about  our  woe. 
Behind  the  plowing  storm  run  shining  waves, 
Like  beetles  through  new  furrows ;  the  same  hand 
That  peels  the  tough  husk  of  the  chrysalis. 
Gives  it  its  double  wings  to  fly  withal ; 
The  rain  that  makes  the  wren  sail  heavily 
Sets  on  the  millet  stocks  their  golden  tops : 
And  earthly  immortality  is  bought 
At  the  great  price  of  earthly  happiness. 
Only  the  gods  from  the  blue  skies  come  down, 
Mad  for  the  love  of  genius  —  Genius,  named. 
Also,  the  Sorrowful ;  and  from  the  clouds. 
That  dim  the  lofty  heaven  of  poesy, 
Falls  out  the  sweetest  music ;  in  the  earth 
The  seed  must  be  imprisoned,  ere  to  life 
It  quicken  and  sprout  brightly  ;  the  sharp  stroke 
Brings  from  the  flint  its  flery  property ; 
And  that  we  call  misfortune,  to  the  wise 
Is  a  good  minister,  and  knowledge  brings  : 
And  knowledge  is  the  basis  whereon  power 
Builds  her  eternal  arches.     In  the  dust 
Of  baffled  purposes  springs  up  resolve. 
The  plant  which  bears  the  fruit  of  victory. 
The  old  astrologers  were  wrong  :  nor  star, 
Nor  the  vexed  ghosts  that  glide  into  the  light. 
From  the  unquiet  charnels  of  the  bad, 


302  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

Nor  wicked  sprite  of  air,  nor  such  as  leap 

Nimbly  from  wave  to  wave  along  the  sea, 

Enchanting  with  sweet  tongues  disastrous  ships 

Till  the  rough  crews  are  half  in  love  with  death, 

Have  any  spell  of  evil  witchery 

To  keep  us  back  from  being  what  we  would. 

If  wisdom  temper  the  true  bent  of  us. 

We  drive  the  furrow,  with  the  share  of  faith. 

Through  the  waste  field  of  life,  and  our  own  hands 

Sow  thick  the  seeds  that  spring  to  weeds  or  flowers, 

And  never  strong  Necessity,  nor  Fate, 

Trammels  the  soul  that  firmly  says,  I  will  ! 

Else  are  we  playthings,  and  't  is  Satan's  mock 

To  preach  to  us  repentance  and  belief. 

Sweet  saints  I  pray  in  piteous  love  agree, 

And  from  the  ugly  bosom  of  despair 

Draw  back  the  nestling  hand  — heal  the  vexed  heart 

And  steady  it  —  what  time  the  faltering  faith 

Keeps  its  own  council  with  determinate  Will, 

The  hardy  pioneer  of  all  success. 

"  Among  the  ruins  of  my  rightful  hojoes 
Shall  I  crouch  down  and  say  I  am  content  ? 
It  is  not  in  my  nature.     I  would  scorn 
The  weakness  of  submission,  though  to  that 
Life's  miserable  chance  were  narrowed  up. 
Shame  to  the  wearer  of  a  beard  who  wears 
No  manhood  with  it ;  double  shame  to  him 
Whose  plaything  is  the  fillet  of  a  crown. 
Even  beasts  whose  lower  senses  are  shut  in 
From  purposes  of  reason,  have  maintained 
A  lordly  disposition  ;  taming  not 
To  the  sleek  touches  of  the  keeper's  hand. 
The  uses  of  humility  are  still 
For  underlings  and  women  —  not  for  kings. 
And  yet  to  fate,  if  there  be  any  fate. 
Even  the  gods  must  yield ;  they  cannot  make 
The  truth  a  lie,  nor  make  a  lie  the  truth ; 
And  if  to  them  there  be  a  limit  fixed. 
Shall  I,  with  my  weak  hands  of  dust,  essay 
To  bend  the  untempered  iron  of  destiny 
About  my  forehead?     '  T  is  most  maddening. 
The  attempt  and  not  the  achievement  —  yet  th'  attempt 
Is  all  the  wedge  that  splits  its  knotty  way 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLA  SC  A  LA.  303 

Betwixt  the  impossible  and  possible. 

From  the  flat  shrubless  desert  to  the  waves 

Of  willowy  rivers,  flowing  bright  and  cool, 

From  flowery  thickets,  up  into  the  clouds, 

The  bird  may  fly  in  its  own  atmosphere ; 

But  from  the  long  dead  reaches  of  blank  space 

Its  free  wings  fall  back  baffled.     So  it  is 

^Vith  gods  and  men :  each  have  their  atmospheres, 

Which  they  are  free  to  move  in,  and  to  which 

From  ampler  quests,  they  needs  must  flounder  down. 

Sometimes  when  goaded  to  the  utmost  verge 

Of  possible  endurance  — gathering  all 

My  sorrows  to  one  purpose,  rebel  like, 

I  would  step  out  into  the  dark,  when  lo ! 

Fate  ties  my  unwilling  feet,  and  'twixt  my  eyes 

And  the  great  Infinite,  full  in  the  sun 

Makes  quiet  pictures.     But  ere  I  can  shape 

This  chaos  of  crushed  manhood  that  I  am 

To  any  purposes,  the  faithless  light 

Breaks  up,  and  all  is  darkness  as  it  was. 

So  are  we  crippled  ever.     Even  like 

The  snake  some  burden  fastens  to  the  ground, 

Now  palpitating  into  stiff,  bright  rings, 

Now  lengthening  limberly  along  the  dust, 

But  gaining  not  a  hair's  breadth  for  its  pains. 

Is  thought :  its  lengths  now  stretched  to  overclimb 

The  steep  high  walls  about  us  :  now,  alas  ! 

Dragging  back  heavily  into  itself. 

Like  am  I  to  a  drowning  man,  whose  hands 

Hold  idly  to  the  unsubstantial  waves ; 

Or  like  some  dreamer,  on  whose  conscious  form 

A  wretched  weight  lies  heavy,  while  his  tongue 

Refuses  utterance  to  his  agony. 

I  cannot  rise  out  of  this  living  death. 

More  than  the  prematurely  buried  man, 

Who,  waking  from  his  torpor,  feels  his  limbs 

Bound,  from  their  natural  uses,  in  the  shroud, 

And  feebly  strives  to  climb  out  of  his  grave. 

"  Is  there  no  strength,  in  sorrow  or  in  prayer, 
To  smite  the  brazen  portals  of  the  sun. 
And  bring  some  beam  to  lead  me  into  hope  ? 
Not  so  :  the  unoriginated  Power 
Sweeps  back  the  audacious  thought  to  emptiness. 


304  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

What  are  the  sufferings  of  one  little  life, 

Nay,  of  a  thousand  or  ten  thousand  lives. 

Or  what  is  all  this  large  and  curious  world, 

Its  meditative  sighs,  its  hopes  and  loves, 

Rivers  and  mountains,  rough  and  obstinate. 

Primeval  solitudes,  and  darknesses 

Where  the  days  drop  like  plummets  —  what  are  all, 

Tumbled  in  one,  and  with  a  cerement  bound, 

But  as  a  bundle  going  up  and  down, 

In  the  vast  ocean  of  eternity  ! 

High'  as  the  sun  above  the  drop  of  dew 

The  gods  dwell  over  us,  and  have  they  need 

To  buy  our  favor  with  some  piteous  sign  ? 

Their  bliss  we  cannot  lessen  nor  increase. 

But  as  we  grow  up  to  the  topling  heights 

Of  our  ambitions,  more  and  more  we  catch 

Some  dim  reflection  of  their  sovereignty. 

The  path  is  narrow  that  goes  up,  and  on. 

And  Fame  a  jealous  mistress.     They  who  reach 

To  take  her  hand  must  let  all  others  go. 

"  Borders  and  plaits  of  red  and  saphirine 
Are  pretty  in  the  robe  of  royalty. 
But  to  the  drowning  man,  who  strains  against 
The  whelming  waves,  the  gaud  were  cumbersome, 
And  straightway  shredded  off,  and  wet,  wild  rocks 
Hugged  to  his  bosom  with  a  closer  clasp 
Than  the  young  mother  to  her  baby  gives. 
When  from  his  steady  footing  hungry  Death 
Goes  moaning  back,  the  time  has  come  to  pluck 
The  honorable  gear.     I  must  be  wise. 
And  clutching  at  whatever  means  I  may. 
Climb  to  the  moveless  stepping  of  my  throne. 
If  youth  were  back  again,  or  th'  last  year, 
Or  even  if  yesterday  might  break  anew, 
I  would  be  vigilant ;  do  thus,  or  thus. 

"  So  sit  we  idle,  till  another  day 
Dies,  and  is  wrapt  in  purple  like  the  rest. 
Years  run  to  waste,  and  age  comes  stealing  slow 
On  our  imperfect  plans,  till  in  our  veins 
The  life  tide,  sluggish,  like  an  earth-worm  lies. 
Where  down  yon  mountain  side  the  dragon's  blood  * 

*  "  Dragon's  Blood  "  runs  from  a  large  tree  growing  in  the  mountains  of  Quachi- 
nanco  and  those  of  the  Cubuixcas.  —  Cla/vigero. 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLA SC ALA.  305 

Drips  till  the  rocks,  in  the  close  noontide  heat, 

Smoke  mistily,  the  miztli"*  couchant  lies, 

His  muscles  quivering  with  excess  of  life ; 

But  should  he  lie  there  till  his  hungry  howls 

Crash  through  the  shaken  forest  like  a  storm, 

AVould  any  beast  divide  his  prey  with  him ! 

Or  wild  bird,  in  the  flowing  of  his  mane 

Tangling  its  bright  wings,  sing  his  pain  away  ? 

Weak,  foolish  grief,  be  dwarfed  to  nothingness ! 

Henceforth  I  will  not  listen  to  your  moans. 

Did  Colhua's  princess  t  buy  Avith  mortal  life 

The  honor  to  be  mother  of  a  god, 

And  shall  her  woman's  courage  shame  a  king's  ? 

There  is  not  air  in  all  the  blowing  north 

For  me  to  breathe,  with  Maxtala  alive ! 

Yet  am  I  beggared,  orphaned  of  all  hope, 

Herding  with  the  coyotli,  |  while  he  reigns 

The  monarch  of  my  palace ;  and  the  maids, 

From  Zalahua's  shade  to  Tlascala, 

Bend  for  his  gracious  favor  till  their  locks 

Flow  in  a  bath  of  fragrance  at  his  feet. 

Pipers,  with  garlands  prankt  fantastical, 

Blow  on  their  reeds  to  please  his  idleness, 

Making  the  air  so  sweetly  musical 

That  the  hushed  birds  hang  listening  on  the  boughs. 

And,  for  his  whim,  victims  are  led  to  death. 

Till  the  red  footprints  of  his  headsmen  grim, 

In  the  hot  noon  of  summer  never  dry ; 

And  masks  unholy  cheat  the  hours,  what  time, 

Stringing  black  poppies  round  her  forehead.  Eve 

Walks  from  her  transient  palace  in  the  clouds. 

Her  dark  robe  trailing  down  its  base  of  blue  ; 

Or,  when  the  morn,  her  sandals  tied  with  light, 

Along  the  fields  of  heaven  gathers  the  stars, 

Like  blossoms,  to  her  bosom.     By  the  power 

Of  all  the  gods,  his  wanton  lip  shall  drink 

The  wine  of  wormwood.     I  will  husk  full  soon 

The  splendor  from  his  ugly  body  down, 

And  whistle  him  out  to  run  before  my  hate, 

Unkingdomed  and  unfriended,  for  his  life. 

He,  too,  shall  have,  as  I  have  now,  the  winds, 

*  The  Mexican  lion. 

t  Cla^ngero,  i.  124,  presents  the  curious  details  of  the  sacrifice  and  deification  of 
this  princess.  %  The  wolf. 


306  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

At  night,  for  chamberlains.     My  exile  proves 
The  executioner's  brief  drawing  off, 
To  strike  betwixt  the  eyes  —  the  sly  recoil 
Before  the  deadly  spring  —  this,  only  this !  " 

On  this  wise  spoke  Hualco :  otherwhiles, 
The  drowsy  monotone  of  murmurous  bees 
Crept  softly  under  pansied  coverlids; 
Or  the  still  flowing  of  the  cool  west  wind, 
Or  sunset,  haply,  or  the  unshaken  stars, 
Or  interfuse  of  fair  things  without  name  — 
But  of  such  wondrous,  magical  potency. 
That  Love,  the  leash  of  chance  enchantment  slipt, 
Has  in  his  bed  of  beauty  drowsed  sometimes. 
While  Goodness,  clothed  not  of  the  beautiful. 
Pined,  dying  for  his  whisper  —  to  his  heart 
Gave  all  their  sweetest  comfort.     As  the  bough 
Drops  in  the  storm  its  weights  of  rainy  leaves. 
His  roused  soul  dropt  the  heaviness  away. 
And  he  went,  mated  with  most  rare  delight. 
Through  the  green  windings  of  the  wilderness. 
Nature  is  kindly  ever,  and  we  all 
Have  from  her  naked  bosom  drawn  at  times 
Drafts  sweet  as  crusted  nectar. 

Charily 
She  gives  us  entertainment,  if  we  come 
With  hearts  unsanctified  and  noisy  feet, 
Into  her  tents  of  pious  solitude. 
But  when  we  go  in  worshipful,  she  spreads 
Her  altars  with  the  sacrament  of  peace, 
And  lifts  into  her  solemn  psalmody 
Our  spirits'  else  unuttered  melodies. 
'T  is  not  the  outward  garniture  of  things 
That  through  the  senses  makes  creation  fair. 
But  the  out-flow  of  an  indwelling  light. 
That  gives  its  lovely  aspect  to  the  world. 
Sometimes  his  memory  wandered  to  the  hours 
When  in  the  Mexic  capital,*  a  child. 
And  yet  an  exile,  or  in  his  own  halls. 
By  sufferance  of  the  usurper,  who  had  slain. 
(While  he,  concealed,  look'd  from  the  spreading  palm 
That  swung  its  odorous  censers  in  the  court,) 

*  The  imperial  families  of   Tezcuco  were  at  this   period  allied,  and  the  young 
prince  found  a  temporary  refuge  within  the  palace  of  his  relations. 


THE  ^MAIDEN  OF  TLA SC ALA.  307 

Texcuco's  sovereign,  who  at  bay  had  held 
The  trampling  foe,  tuiniiltuous,  which  Tepan 
Sent,  with  a  robber  thirst  and  barbarous  strength, 
To  subjugate  the  fair  land  of  the  world  — 
More  fair  for  courtesy  than  even  the  arts 
Which  reared  its  temples  and  its  palaces  ; 
Held  them  at  bay,  until  his  chiefs  and  legions, 
Borne  down  like  corustocks  in  a  whirlwind,  lay 
Along  the  wide  field  of  blood-wanting  war ;  * 
And  sometimes,  past  these  scenes,  to  better  hours, 
Wherein  he  sought  a  mastery  of  the  lore, 
Far-reaching  through  the  arches,  low  and  dark. 
Which  are  the  entrance  of  the  eternal  world  — 
That  greatest  wisdom  which  a  king  should  learn, 
Who  with  the  gods  would  find  himself  a  friend. 
But  these  were  only  sunbeams  in  his  clouds, 
And  often  from  their  flush  of  brief  delight 
An  unseen  spirit  plucked  him,  and  his  soul 
Went  darkly  out  from  its  serenity. 
For  sometimes,  keen  and  cold  and  pitiless  truth. 
In  spite  of  us,  will  press  to  open  light 
The  naked  angularities  of  things, 
And,  from  the  steep  ideal,  the  soul  drop 
In  wild  and  sorrowful  beauty,  like  a  star, 
From  the  bine  heights  of  heaven  into  the  sea. 
In  the  dumb  middle  of  the  night  he  heard 
The  plaining  voice  of  one  f  who  died  for  him. 
Saying,  "  Hualco,  let  my  wasted  blood 
Cement  the  broken  beauty  of  thy  throne. 
And  so  shine  evermore  upon  thine  eyes 
Like  bright  veins  in  the  marble."     He  could  see 
His  pleading  innocence,  thrust  by  tyranny. 
Over  the  grave's  steep  edges,  to  the  dark, 
And  all  the  train  of  lovelight,  hitherto 
Drawn  after  his  firm  footsteps,  faded  off 
To  gray,  blank  mildew ;  see  the  dying  smile, 
The  soul's  expression,  falling  into  dust. 
Sometimes,  in  pictures  which  his  fancy  made. 
Along  Tozantla's  hills  he  saw  him  go, 

♦These  events  occurred,  according  to  Ixtilxochitl,  in  141S. 

t  Xot  long-  after  his  tiight  from  the  field  on  which  his  father  had  been  slain, 
the  prince  fell  into  the  hands  of  his  enemy,  was  borne  off  in  triumph  to  his  city, 
and  thrown  into  a  dungeon.  He  effected  his  escape,  however,  through  the  conni- 
vance of  the  governor  of  the  fortress,  a  servant  of  his  family,  who  took  the  place  ol 
the  royal  fugitive,  and  paid  for  his  loyalty  with  his  life. —  Preacott. 


308  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CATvY. 

With  the  wild  scarlet  of  its  running  flowers, 
Tying  his  bundles  of  sharp  arrows  up, 
And  in  the  shadows  of  the  holy  wood 
Rest  in  the  noontide  —  lithe-limbed  antelopes, 
And  strings  of  wild  birds,  ruffled,  open-winged, 
Strewing  the  ground  about  him ;  and,  at  night, 
He  saw  him  cast  his  burden  at  the  door 
Of  the  clay  hut  wherein  his  mother  dwelt, 
Her  love  bewildered  into  wonderment. 
As,  with  a  hunter's  eloquence,  he  told 
How  his  quick  shaft  had  blinded  a  huge  beast 
That  needs  must  stagger  on  his  cunning  trap. 
The  tzanahuei's  warble  seemed  his  voice. 
Singing  some  boyish  roundelay  of  love, 
And  murmurous  fall  of  water,  like  his  coo 
To  his  pet  tigress,  penning  her  at  night. 

There  was  another  picture,  whose  dark  ground 
No  gleam  of  light  illumined :  hands,  close-bound  , 
From  all  the  arrows,  and  the  jetty  locks 
Clipt  for  the  axe's  edge ;  brows  pale,  with  pain. 
And  sad  eyes  turned  in  mute  reproach  to  him ; 
And  this  it  was  that  wrung  his  misery 
To  that  worst  phase  of  all  —  the  terrible  sense 
Of  injury  done,  with  utter  impotence. 
To  lift  the  pallid  forehead  out  of  death. 
And  crown  it  with  our  sorrow. 

I  believe 
Such  griefs  make  many  madmen,  driving  some 
Into  the  lonesome  wilderness,  where  all 
That  fine  intelligence  which  shines  intrenched 
Fast  in  the  mortal  eyes  of  innocent  men, 
Throbs  fitful  through  the  film,  obscured  at  last 
To  the  scared  glaring  of  a  hunted  beast : 
And  others,  of  more  speculative  souls. 
Pushing  to  realms  fantastic,  where,  athirst. 
They  see  the  fountains  sucked  up  by  the  sand. 
And  hungry,  pluck  the  red-cheeked  fruits,  to  find 
The  mortifying  purples  which  make  mad 
Such  as  do  eat  and  die  not ;  and  where  dwell 
Shapes  incomplete,  with  brows  of  pale  misease, 
That  in  the  moon's  infrequent  glimmering 
Run  from  their  shadows,  gibbering  their  fear ; 
Where  earth  seems  from  its  beauteous  uses  worn 


THE  MAIDEN   OF   TLASCALA.  309 

As  with  a  slow  eternity  of  pain  — 
Battered  and  worn,  till  no  sweet  grass  can  grow 
Upon  its  old,  scarred  body,  any  more. 
This  was  a  grief  indeed.     No  stabbing  steel 
Strikes  through  the  dark  like  such  a  memory. 
And  every  day  he  went  into  the  past, 
And  lived  his  history  over,  setting  up, 
Against  each  false  step,  some  excusing  plea : 
If  this,  or  this  transiixing  point  of  time 
Were  a  nonentity  —  if  such  an  act 
Had  been  beforehand  of  celerity  — 
And  such  a  pretty  dalliance  with  chance 
Pressed  into  service,  —  he  had  held  secure 
In  his  own  hands,  the  destiny  which  now 
Stood  at  a  murderer's  mercy.     For  us  all, 
Within  some  fortunate  moment,  good  is  lodged. 
And  chance  may  possibly  tumble  on  the  prize  — 
But  vigilance  is  opportunity. 

I  think,  of  all  the  sweetest  gifts  that  be 
Strung  in  the  rosary  of  the  love  of  God, 
And  flung  about  us  mortals,  there  is  none 
Hath  such  divine  excess  of  excellence 
As  that  creative  and  mad  faculty 
Which  out  of  nothing  strings  the  lyres  that  ring 
Along  the  shadowy  palaces  of  dreams. 
And  so  ring  on  and  echo  down  the  world, 
Till,  where  time's  circle  meets  eternity, 
The  trancing  shivers  of  rapt  melodies 
Crumble  away  to  silence,  and  fade  off. 
Blest  is  the  wanderer  out  of  human  love 
Who  hath  been  answered  by  this  oracle. 
What  need  hath  he  of  the  poor  shows  of  power, 
Who  can  charm  angels  out  of  heaven,  and  cross 
Their  light  wings  on  his  bosom,  in  his  song  ? 
What  need  hath  he  of  mortal  company  — 
Weak  heritors  of  passion  and  of  pain  — 
That  he  should  care  to  cower  beneath  their  roofs  ? 
What  if  his  locks  are  heavy,  drenched  with  dew  — 
Beings  that  duller  mortals  cannot  see 
Will  stoop  above  him,  and  between  their  palms 
Press  them  out  dry,  or  the  wild  breeze  may  stop 
And  blow  them  loosely  open  to  the  sun. 
Widen  no  rings  about  your  fires  for  him 


310  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Who  catches  the  white  mantles  of  the  clouds, 
And  round  his  bosom  in  the  chilly  night 
Gathers  the  golden  tresses  of  the  stars ; 
For  no  abiding  city  men  might  build, 
In  the  flat  desert  of  their  quietude, 
Could  stay  him  from  his  long  bright  wanderings. 
The  sea  waves,  roughly  breaking  on  the  rocks. 
The  terrible  crash  of  the  live  thunderstroke. 
Or  the  low  earthquake's  rumble,  on  his  ear 
Fall  in  a  softer  music  than  on  yours 
The  lovely  prattle  of  your  lisping  babes : 
For  in  his  soul  is  a  transforming  power 
By  you  unapprehended  and  unknown. 
And  he  of  whom  I  sing,  shaping  his  woe 
To  the  charmed  syllables  of  poesy,* 
Built  visionary  kingdoms,  and  recrowned 
His  naked  brows  out  of  the  light  of  dreams. 
Even  as  the  white  steeds  of  the  desert  keep 
Before  the  clouds  of  hot  and  blinding  sand. 
Ran  his  wild  visions  forward  of  the  truth. 
Sometimes  he  sung  of  maidens,  shut  in  towers 
Of  unhewn  rocks,  cold  bowers  of  beauty,  where 
The  moonlight  blew  across  the  beds  of  love 
Tinged  with  the  scarlet  of  the  sacrifice  ; 
Of  the  blue  sky  sometimes,  or  of  the  moon 
Walking  night's  cloudy  wilderness,  as  walks 
The  white  doe  through  a  jungle ;  of  steep  rocks 
Burnt  red  and  pastureless,  where  strings  of  goats 
Climbed,  hungry,  to  the  rattle  of  picked  bones 
In  the  near  eyry ;  sometimes  of  the  hour 
When  in  the  sea  of  twilight  the  round  sun 
Sinks  slow  and  sullen,  and,  one  after  one. 
Circles  of  shadows  crusted  thick  with  stars 
Come  up  and  break  upon  the  shore  of  night. 
But  mostly  were  his  visions  sorrowful ; 
For  all  the  higher  attributes  of  life 
Have  still  some  touch  of  sadness :  love  and  hope 
Dwell  ever  in  the  haunted  house  of  Fear, 

*  Neza-hualco-yotl,  Clavigero  says,  excelled  in  poetry,  and  produced  many  com- 
positions, which  met  with  universal  applause.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  his  sixty 
hymns,  composed  in  honor  of  the  Creator  of  heaven,  were  celebrated  even  among 
the  Spaniards.  Two  of  his  odes  or  songs,  translated  into  Spanish  verse  by  his  de- 
scendant, the  historian  IxtUlxochitl,  have  been  preserved  into  our  time ;  and  Mr. 
Prescott  has  given  us  prose  and  lyrical  versions  of  one  of  them,  in  his  Conquest  of 
Mexico. 


THE  MAIDEN   OF   TLA  SC A  LA.  311 

And  even  the  God  incarnate  wept  to  see 
The  blanched  and  purposeless  repose  wherein 
We  lie  at  last  —  our  busy  cares  all  done, 
Shut  in  the  darkness  by  white  heavy  death, 
Like  dreams  within  the  hueless  gates  of  day. 

So  busy  thought  bloomed  into  poesy, 
As  buds  bloom  into  flowers  —  bloomed  and  was  drowned 
In  storms  of  tears,  and  fell  back  on  his  heart. 
As  falls  back  to  the  earth  the  pretty  moth 
That  flies  into  the  rain  —  its  wild  wings  drenched 
From  beauty  to  the  color  of  the  ground. 
And  the  spring  sprouted,  and  the  summer  smiled, 
And  day  went  darkly  down,  and  morn  came  up 
And  ran  between  the  mountains  goldenly ; 
The  wandering  wasp  shut  up  its  thin  blue  wings, 
Pricking  the  soft  green  bark  of  the  capote 
With  mortices  —  a  ceaseless  builder  he  ; 
Nympha  of  bees  hung  on  the  oaken  boughs, 
Feasted  the  birds ;  and  red,  along  the  grass, 
The  heads  of  burning  worms  like  berries  shone. 
Others,  with  yellow  venomous  prickles  set. 
And  coiled  in  globes,  stuck  burr-like  in  the  shrubs. 
While  from  their  nests  came  out  into  the  light 
The  black-downed  spider  and  brown  scorpion. 
At  night,  the  shining  beetles,  flying  thick, 
Glimmered,  hi?  tent-lights,  and  the  woods  hung  low 
Their  long  bright  boughs  —  green  curtains  shutting  down 
About  his  slumber  —  while  the  blessed  dew 
Sunk  pearl-like  'twixt  his  long  and  uncombed  locks. 
For  whether  morn  ran  goldenly  along 
The  mountain  rifts,  and  with  her  kisses  broke 
The  blue  and  ruby-hearted  flowers  apart, 
Or  whether  night  fell  black  along  the  hills, 
Tezcuco's  heir,  alone  and  sceptreless. 
Travelled  the  woods,  a  price  upon  his  head. 

There  was  a  cabin,  with  an  aloe  thatch. 
And  gables  of  cool  moss,  whereby  three  trees 
Ruffled  their  tops  together,  through  the  which 
A  red  vine  ran  convolved,  as  in  the  clouds. 
Blowing  and  blending  in  the  twilight  wind, 
A  vein  of  fire  runs  zig-zag.     South  from  the  door, 
A  fountain,  breaking  into  golden  snow. 
Cut  a  soft  slope  of  fresh  and  beautiful  green, 


312  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

With  its  superfluous  wealth,  at  evening  fringed 

By  goats,  unprisoned,  slowly  feeding  home. 

Close  by  this  fountain,  screened  by  drooping  boughs, 

A  wheel  turned  idly  to  the  breeze's  touch, 

And  from  the  unbusy  distaff  the  teased  flax 

Twisted  to  tangly  wisps.     Here,  until  now, 

Spinning  among  the  birds,  a  peasant's  child. 

With  eyes  poetic,  tawny  cheeks,  and  hair 

Dark  as  a  storm  in  winter,  hath  been  used 

To  sing  the  sun  asleep. 

Fate  is  discreet, 
And  grapples  as  with  hooks  of  steel  the  ends 
Of  her  great  purposes ;  therefore  the  maid, 
Who  sleeps  beneath  the  aloe  thatch  at  night, 
And  sings  and  spins  among  the  birds  all  day. 
Is  gone  to  meet  the  exigence  that  weaves 
The  dark  thread  of  her  story  with  my  song. 
Ah,  as  she  cuts  the  shining  jointed  stocks. 
And  packs  them  into  heaps,  tossing  away 
The  heavy  tresses  from  her  stooping  brow. 
Little  she  deems  their  sable  near  to  line 
The  pearly  rimming  of  Tezcuco's  crown  ! 

A  pall  of  clouds,  bordered  with  dun  faint  fire, 
Veiled  the  dead  face  of  day,  and  the  young  moon. 
Washed  to  her  whitest  splendor  in  the  sea, 
Took  the  audacious  pelting  of  the  waves 
Betwixt  her  horns,  nor  staggered,  and  so  clomb 
To  fields  of  sweeter  pasture.     In  the  west, 
A  ridge  of  pines,  that  burnt  themselves  to  flame 
An  hour  ago,  set  their  jagged  tops 
Black  in  th'  horizon.     Thence,  suddenly, 
Flitted  a  shape  or  shadow,  and  the  feet 
Of  the  Tlascalan  maiden,  Tlaara, 
Were  touched  with  prayerful  kisses.     Well-a-day ! 
The  ear  too  deaf  to  hear  —  though  all  at  once. 
Sung  fifty  nightingales,  covering  the  woods 
With  undulating  sweetness,  as  a  cloud 
Of  yellow  bees  covers  a  limb  of  flowers  — 
Drinks  eagerly  the  faintest  sound  of  praise, 
And  the  poor  peasant  was  less  firmly  held 
From  quickly  flying,  by  the  hands  that  clung 
To  her  robe's  hem,  than  by  the  kingly  brow 
Dropping  against  the  ground,  obsequious. 


THE   MAIDEN  OF  TLA SC ALA.  313 

Across  the  hills  she  heard  the  hot  pursuit, 

And,  for  a  moment,  came  a  blinding  wave 

From  their  far  tops,  of  splendor ;  then,  as  one 

Whose  foot  is  on  the  serpent's  head,  she  cried, 

"Off,  tempting  fury!  my  weak  woman's  hands  — 

Mock  if  thou  darest !  —  have  in  them  strength  enough 

To  bind  a  thousand  of  thy  black-winged  crew, 

And  hold  them  level  with  their  beds  of  fire. 

It  is  most  false  that  they  are  strong  alone, 

With  a  cold  guard  of  virtue  or  of  fear. 

Who  keep  thee  from  them  always.     She  who  once 

Hugs  to  her  bosom  any  imp  of  thine, 

And  rends  it  after,  or  with  desperate  will, 

Wrenches  her  heart  from  its  infirmity. 

And  on  the  very  edges  of  the  pit 

Shakes  the  red  shadow  from  her  soul,  and  turns 

To  front  the  demon  that  has  dragged  her  there  — 

Believe  me,  she  is  stronger  than  they  all 

Who  dare  not  wait  to  listen  I " 

Oh,  to  such 
Doubt  not  but  that  some  piteous  god  will  come, 
Beauteously  whitening  down  the  blue  of  heaven, 
And  feed  their  souls  with  the  blest  sweetnesses 
Drawn  out  of  Mercy's  everliving  wells. 
Till  the  air  round  them,  with  tumultuous  joy 
Hangs  shivering  like  a  wilderness  of  leaves. 
And  drifts  of  light  run  rippling  through  the  clouds 
Like  music  through  the  wings  of  cherubim. 
And  so  she  hid  him  —  in  among  the  stocks  — 
Smothering  the  whispered  prayer,  "  I  am  thy  king, 
Hunted  to  death :  wilt  have  the  damned  price 
That  a  usurper  sets  upon  my  head, 
Or  be  my  angel,  as  thou  look'st  to  be  ?  " 

The  hungry  hunters  of  his  life  came  on, 
And  saw  the  maiden  at  her  quiet  work. 
Close  to  the  reedy  prison,  and  so  went 
Misguided  forward.*     Such  tumultuous  joy 

♦The  prince  sought  a  retreat  in  the  mountainous  and  woody  district  by  the 
borders  of  Tlascala,  and  there  led  a  wandering-  life,  hiding  himself  in  deep  thickets 
and  caverns,  and  stealing  out  at  night  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  appetite  ;  while 
kept  in  constant  alarm  by  the  activity  of  pursuers,  always  hovering  on  his  track. 
On  one  occasion,  says  Prescott,  he  was  just  able  to  turn  the  crest  of  a  hill,  as  they 
were  climbing  it  on  the  other  side,  when  he  fell  in  with  a  girl  who  was  rea|iing 
chian;  he  persuaded  her  to  cover  him  up  with  the  stocks  she  had  been  cutting; 
and  when  his  pursuers  came  up  and  inquired  if  she  had  seen  the  fugitive,  the  girl 
coolly  answered  that  she  had,  and  pointed  out  a  path  as  the  one  he  had  taken. 


314  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY 

As  filled  her  bosom  only  they  may  know 

Who,  voyaging  beyond  mortality, 

Feel  the  prow's  grating,  golden,  on  the  stars. 

Forgive  her  for  that  moment  hesitant ; 

Forgive  her,  if  she  saw  the  aloe  thatch 

Of  the  clay  cabin,  where  all  day  she  spun, 

Widen  above  a  palace,  broad  and  brave ; 

Forgive  her  if  she  saw,  if  so  she  did. 

Her  jetty  trailing  locks  strung  round  with  gems, 

Drawing  the  eyes  of  princes  after  them  ; 

Forgive,  for  she  was  human,  and  we  all 

At  some  time  have  had  need  to  say,  Forgive ! 

Far  from  the  banished  Eden  though  we  be, 

Some  beautiful  provision  meets  our  need  — 

Slumber,  and  dreamy  pillows,  for  the  tired ; 

For  labor,  plenteous  harvests,  and  for  love 

The  crowning  nuptial ;  for  old  age,  repose, 

And  for  the  worn  and  weary,  kindly  death 

To  make  the  all  composing  lullaby. 

But  nothing  in  this  low  and  ruined  world 

Bears  the  meek  impress  of  the  Son  of  God 

So  surely  as  forgiveness.     The  last  plea, 

O'er  slighted  love  and  sorrow  rising  sweet. 

Lit  for  a  time  the  ancient  realm  of  death. 

As  if  within  its  still  and  black  abysm 

A  new-born  star  oped  its  gold-lidded  eye, 

And  for  a  season  in  the  depths  of  hell 

Cooled  the  red  burning  like  a  cloud  of  dew. 

Like  to  two  billows,  tossed  and  worried  long. 

That  on  some  fearful  breaker  meet  and  close, 

Upon  a  desperate  point  of  time  there  met 

This  youth's  and  maiden's  unshaped  destinies  — 

Met,  and  so  closed  to  one.     Oh,  pitiful ! 

Oh,  woeful !  that  so  bright  a  tide  should  ebb, 

And  leave  along  this  good  life  as  it  does 

Shoals  of  dry,  barren  dust.     Somewhere  is  wrong ! 

And  night  was  past,  and  in  the  lap  of  day 
The  morning  nestled,  and  yet  other  nights 
Followed  by  other  days  had  come  and  gone. 
And  the  wild  sorrow  of  the  tempter's  voice 
Had  dwarfed  to  utter  silence,  yet  the  maid 
Had  loosed  her  clasping  never  on  the  cross,* 

*  It  is  curious  that  the  cross  should  have  been  regarded  as  an  object  of  religious 
worship  where  the  light  of  Christianity  had  never  risen.  See  Peter  Martyr'g Z>ecarf«, 
lis  quoted  by  Lord  Kingsborough,  in  bis  Antiquities  of  Mexico. 


THE  MAIDEN  OF   TLASCALA.  315 

Bought  at  so  great  price  of  earthly  fame. 

But  its  rough,  thorny  wood,  so  heavy  once, 

Had  budded  bright  with  many  a  regal  flower. 

The  heir  of  kingly  generations  laid  . 

His  crown  upon  her  lap,  for  her  sweet  eyes, 

And,  for  the  zoning  of  her  fond  arms,  gave 

The  warrior's  belted  glory  :  lovers  they, 

And  blessed  both  —  he  calm  in  manhood's  pride. 

She  trembling  at  the  top  of  ecstacy. 

How  shall  I  paint  the  dear  delicious  hours ! 

Xo  lilies  swimming  white  in  summer's  waves, 

iS"o  dove,  soft  cooing  to  her  little  birds. 

No  hushes  of  the  half  reluctant  leaves. 

When  the  south  winds  are  wooing,  passionful, 

Xo  bough  of  ripe  red  apples,  streaked  with  white 

And  full  in  the  fall  sunshine,  were  so  fair. 

The  blushes  of  a  thousand  summertimes. 

Blent  into  one,  and  broken  at  the  core. 

Were  in  its  sweetness  incomparable 

To  the  close  kisses  of  the  mouth  we  love. 

In  the  voluptuous  beauty  of  the  clime. 

That  prisons  summer  everlastingly, 

Tangling  her  bright  hair  with  a  thousand  flowers. 

Some  large  and  heavy  —  reddening  round  her  brows, 

Like  sunset  round  the  day,  what  time  she  lies. 

The  cool  sea  billows  climbing  to  her  arms  — 

Some  white  and  rimmed  with  gold,  and  purple  some, 

Soft  streaked  with  faintest  pink,  and  silver-edged. 

Some  azure,  amber  stained,  and  ashen  some, 

Dropt  with  dull  brown  and  yellow,  leopardlike, 

With  others  blue  and  full  of  crescent  studs 

Or  jetty-belled,  fringed  softly  out  of  snow  — 

So  prodigal  is  nature  of  her  sweets  — 

Dwelt  they,  the  past,  the  future,  all  forgot. 

"  Henceforth  thy  love,  soft-burning  like  a  star. 

Shall  stand  above  my  crown  and  comfort  me," 

Hualco  said,  and  Tlaara's  soft  cheek 

Flushed  out  of  olive,  scarlet,  and  her  heart 

Drank  in  the  essence  of  all  happiness. 

It  was  as  if  humanity  attained 

The  stature  of  its  immortality. 

And  earth  were  gathered  up  into  the  heavens. 

For  Love  makes  all  things  beautiful,  and  finds 


316  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

No  wilderness  without  its  pleasure  tent, 

While  G-enius  goes  with  melancholy  step 

Searching  the  world  for  the  selectest  forms 

Of  high,  and  pure,  and  passionless  excellence  — 

Large-browed,  unmated  Genius  —  yearning  still 

For  the  divinities  which  in  its  dreams 

Brighten  along  the  mountain-tops  of  thought. 

She  could  not  pause,  but  birds  pecked  round  her  feet, 

Fluttering  and  singing ;   if  at  eve  she  walked. 

The  clouds  rained  tender  dews  upon  her  head ; 

Meeting  a  hungry  lion  in  the  woods. 

Grinding  his  tusks,  he  crouched  and  piteous  whined, 

Then  turned  his  great  sad  face  and  fled  away  — 

Love  was  her  only  armor,  yet  he  fled. 

Her  wheel  spun  round  itself ;  the  trickiest  goat 

Stood  patient  for  the  milking  ;  jubilant. 

The  smooth-stemmed  corn  its  gray-green  tassels  shook, 

As  she  went  binding  its  broad  blades  to  sheaves. 

Sunshine  which  only  she  could  see,  made  fair 

Even  alien  fields ;  and  if  Hualco  sighed. 

She  put  a  crown  of  kisses  on  his  brow. 

And  drew  him,  with  her  smiling,  from  the  thoughts 

That  wandered  toward  Tezcuco's  palaces. 

And  for  the  vague,  unfriendly  fear,  that  made 

His  lessening  love  a  possibility, 

She  gave  into  his  hand  the  secretest  key 

Of  her  heart's  treasury.     Sometimes  they  walked 

Between  the  moonbeams  slanting  up  the  hills, 

In  ways  of  shadow,  edged  with  white  cold  light. 

Or  sat  in  solitudes  where  never  sound 

Fed  the  dumb  lips  of  echo ;  but  the  flat 

Of  desertness,  low  lying,  bare,  and  brown. 

Their  praises  like  a  verdurous  meadow  drew. 

And  the  black  nettle  and  rude  prickly  burr 

Challenged  of  each  some  tender  eloquence. 

Along  their  paths  mute  stones  grew  voluble, 

And  sweeter  voices  than  of  twilight  birds, 

Filling  Olintha's  mountain  solitudes. 

Flowed  out  of  silence  to  their  listening : 

For  silence  hath  a  language  and  a  glance 

May  burn  into  the  heart  like  living  fire, 

Or  freeze  its  living  currents  into  ice. 

Sometimes  he  told  of  maidens,  fair  as  she, 


THE  MAIDEN  OF   TLASCALA.  317 

That  for  his  sake  had  folded  in  their  arms 
The  awful  flames  of  martyrdom  ;  but  quick 
The  piteous  flowing  of  her  gentle  tears 
Dried,  in  the  burning  crimson  of  his  kiss. 
•What  was  't  to  them,  that  in  the  hemlock  woods* 
Sad  priests  kept  fast  and  vigil,  with  stooped  brows 
Under  their  hoods  of  thorns,  low  from  the  light, 
As  once  the  chieftain  of  the  Aztec  hosts 
Heard  the  wild  bird,  responsive  to  his  thought, 
Still  sadly  crying  o'er  and  o'er,  "  Tihui,"  f 
Warning  from  Aztlan  all  his  tribe  away  ? 
So  they,  in  every  murmurous  wdnd,  could  hear 
The  sanctifying  echoes  of  their  hopes ; 
Daily,  the  tremulous  arch  above  the  world, 
Resting  upon  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 
For  love's  sake  deepened  its  eternal  blue ; 
In  the  red  sea  of  sunset,  not  a  star 
Swam  in  its  white  and  tremulous  nakedness, 
Doubling  the  blessed  pulses  in  their  hearts. 
That  seemed  not  for  that  office  specially  made ; 
Such  wondrous  power  hath  that  fair  deity. 
Pictured  sometimes  as  tyrannous  as  fair  — 
If  right  or  wrongfully,  I  cannot  tell. 
But  I  do  truly  think  there  be  few  hearts 
For  which  at  some  time  he  had  not  unloosed 
The  blushing  binding  of  his  nimble  shafts. 
Poor  Tlaara  forgot  that  ugly  death 
Burrowed  in  mortal  soil,  when  that  her  lord 
Kissed  her,  and  called  her  "sweetest;"  all  her  joy 
Was  basemented  upon  a  smile  of  his ; 
And  if  he  frowned,  the  sun  shut  up  his  light. 
Ah,  Tlaara,  thou  dream'st ;  awake,  be  wise  ! 
Already  the  sleek,  golden  cub,  erewhile 
Fondled  and  hidden  in  thy  bosom,  growls. 
As  some  poor  spinner  puts  a  little  wool 
Among  her  flax,  to  save  the  web  from  fire. 
So  she  has  tried  to  twist  with  her  poor  name 
Some  little  splendor.     Fate  has  baffled  her ; 
But  when  the  mists  of  tears  shall  clear  away, 
She  may  attain  to  such  majestic  heights 
And  atmospheres  of  glory  as  shut  up 

*  For  an  account  of  the  remarkable  fasts  kept,  solitary,  in  the  forests,  by  the 
Mexican  priests,  in  times  of  extraordinary  calamity,  see  Clavigero,  i.  236. 
t  "Let  us  go."  —  Clavigero,  i.  112. 


318  POEMS   BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Life's  lower  planes,  with  all  the  murmurs  made 
O'er  the  death-fluttering  of  fledging  hopes  — 
All  discords  horrible,  and  rude  complaints. 
That  rise,  when  at  some  direful  exigence 
Even  courage  staggers  in  its  way,  and  lays, 
Bestial,  its  radiant  front  against  the  dust. 
Loud  bellowing  out  its  awful  pain,  alone. 

When  a  friend  dies,  while  yet  the  face  has  on 
The  smiling  look  of  life,  't  is  wise  to  lay 
The  shroud  about  it,  and  so  go  again. 
Among  what  joys  are  left,  with  decent  calm. 
When  that  which  seemed  the  angel  of  our  heaven 
Shuts  close  its  wings,  and  its  white  body  shrinks 
To  a  black,  glistering  coil,  ^t  is  little  safe 
To  wait  the  growth  of  fangs.     And  when  we  find 
That  which,  a  little  distant,  seemed  to  us 
The  clambering  of  roses  on  the  rocks. 
To  be  the  flag  of  pirates,  shall  we  stay 
Hugging  the  coast,  and,  dropping  anchor,  hunt 
The  bones  of  murdered  men  ?  or  shall  we  wait  — 
Deserted  and  betrayed,  and  scarce  alive  — 
To  front  the  arrows  of  Love's  sinking  sun, 
And  tempt  the  latest  peril  ?     Just  as  well 
The  obstinate  traveler  might  in  pride  oppose 
His  puny  shoulder  to  the  icy  slip 
Of  the  blind  avalanche,  and  hope  for  life ; 
Or  Beauty  press  her  forehead  in  the  grave, 
And  think  to  rise  as  from  the  bridal  bed. 
But  woman's  creed  knows  not  philosophy  — 
Her  heart-beats  are  the  rosary  that  tells 
Her  love  off,  even  to  the  cross ;  and  verily 
In  telling  this,  and  telling  only  this. 
Can  they  fill  out  her  nature :  so  again 
Come  we  to  our  sweet  truster,  Tlaara. 

"  What !  goes  my  lord  alone  ?  "     So  spake  she  once ; 
"  The  spinning  work  is  done,  the  milking  past. 
And  past  the  busy  cares.     See  !  the  green  hills 
Sit  in  the  folding  even-light,  so  fair. 
The  dark  house  could  not  hold  me,  but  for  thee. 
Nay,  chide  me  not,  I  will  not  speak  a  word. 
But  walk  so  softly,  love  —  blest,  oh  so  blest. 
Treading  the  earth  thy  steps  make  proud  before  me  !  " 
She  stood  on  tiptoe,  waiting  for  the  kiss 


THE   MAIDEN  OF   TLASCALA.  319 

To  give  her,  in  the  accustomed  way,  reply. 

But  there  was  silence  at  the  first,  and  then 

The  sullen  answer,  "  I  would  be  alone." 

The  world  fell  sick  and  reeled  before  her  eyes. 

And  in  the  dead  and  heavy  atmosphere. 

Where  heaven  had  based  itself  a  moment  past, 

A  vulture  spun  down  low,  as  if  its  wings 

Could  make  no  further  head  —  all  else  was  blank. 

Poor  simple  girl !  a  little  while  the  tears 

Flowed  faster  than  the  blossoms  from  the  bough 

'Gainst  which  she  leaned,  despairing.     A  great  woe 

Crushes  the  fading  of  a  century 

Into  a  moment ;  and  fair  Tlascala, 

Smiling  so  lately  through  the  purpling  light, 

Lay  like  a  shoal  of  ashes,  dry  and  bare. 

But  hope,  however  smitten  or  borne  down, 

Is  quick  to  right  herself,  and  once  astir 

The  world  grows  young  again.     And  Tlaara 

Chid  presently  her  sighs  and  tears  away, 

For  the  seductive  whispering,  which  said, 

For  her  sake  crown  and  kingdom  had  been  lost ; 

Chid  them  away  with  quivering  lip,  and  smiled, 

And  sought  in  cares,  against  her  lord's  return, 

To  wile  the  lengthening  absence.     As  the  bird, 

Wounded,  not  death-struck,  gathers  up  its  wings, 

True  to  its  instinct,  she,  still  true  to  hers. 

Gathered  up  all  her  courage.     He,  the  while. 

Her  lord,  Hualco,  with  drooped  eyes,  and  brow 

Sullen  with  sorrow  and  remorseless  pain. 

Talked  to  his  troubled  soul  in  this  wild  sort : 

"  So  I  am  he,  who  in  yet  beardless  years 
Did  plot  the  ways  to  unkingdom  Maxtala ; 
To  measure  his  vile  body  with  my  sword. 
And  find  what  space  would  rid  the  world  of  him ; 
Ay,  he  who  even  thought  to  be  a  king  — 
Pining  and  love-sick  in  a  peasant's  cot, 
Where  I  can  never  rightly  apprehend 
The  distances  betwixt  me  and  my  crown. 
A  king ;  my  crown  !     Nay,  it  was  all  a  dream. 
That  went  before  me  from  my  youth  till  now  — 
More  than  a  dream,  it  was  a  life-long  lie 
Reaching  into  the  vale  of  years,  and  still 
A  brightness,  wrapping  up  some  old  white  hairs ! 


320  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY, 

And  can  I  see  it  fading,  and  yet  smile  ? 

It  is  as  if  a  corpse  had  power  to  feel 

The  tying  of  its  hands.     My  brain  must  crack, 

Or  I  must  slip  the  dusty  leash  I  wear, 

And  run  into  the  dark. 

"  See  !  the  dead  day 
Drifts  out  in  scarlet  light,  and  the  round  moon 
Whitens  like  day-break  through  the  sullen  clouds. 
I  scarce  can  see  our  cabin  through  the  gaps 
Of  hills  and  woods,  the  night  comes  on  so  fast. 
Yes,  I  can  see  it  now  —  the  heavenly  eyes 
Of  that  sweet  lady,  pretty  Tlaara, 
Ilkimining  the  window  toward  the  sea. 
She  loves  nie,  even  me,  who  have  beside 
No  love  in  all  the  world ;  her  little  hands 
Part  softly  back  the  redwood's  rosy  limbs. 
Low  swinging  in  the  winds,  lest  they  should  hide 
This  sullen,  crownless  front  —  dear  Tlaara !  — 
And  from  that  listening  I  was  near  to  be 
Plucked  off  by  devils ;  I  was  well  nigh  blind. 
Still  gazing  upon  laurels  that  were  knit 
With  the  white  light  of  immortality. 
Sweet  Tlaara,  be  patient,  while  I  mourn 
These  last  weak  tears  behind  the  heavy  hearse 
That  bears  the  old  dream  from  me :  then  again 
I  will  go  singing,  as  we  walk  at  eve 
Under  the  raining  of  the  forest  flowers. 
And  count  my  homely  verses  once  again 
By  the  brown  spots  our  gentle  leopard  has, 
And  beauty  to  our  cabin  will  return." 
Poor  Tlaara,  her  tamest  goat  came  close, 
And  leaned  his  head  against  her,  and  the  wind 
Rested  a  little,  kissing  her  wet  eyes, 
And  blowing  down  her  hair,  the  while  she  stood. 
Her  sad  thoughts  dropping  in  the  well  of  love, 
To  tell  how  deep  it  was ;  an  evil  sign  — 
Only  despair  can  take  its  measurement. 
A  little  time  ago  the  sun  came  up. 
Shearing  the  curly  fleeces  from  the  hills ; 
!N"ow  he  is  dead,  and  the  pale  widowed  west 
Hath  slid  the  burial  earth  upon  his  face. 
"  Blind  eyes  of  mine,"  she  cries,  "  you  cannot  see, 
Though  he  should  rise  and  climb  the  heavens  again^ 


THE  MAIDEN  OF   TLA  SC A  LA.  321 

In  the  dim  days  to  come ;  nor  if,  at  night, 

Under  the  silver  shadows  of  the  clouds, 

With  some  red  blushing  star  the  moon  keeps  tryst  — 

No  more,  oh  never  more  !  blind,  blind  with  tears  ! 

Earth  is  stript  bare  of  beauty,  and,  oh,  lost ! 

I  have  forgone,  close  gazing  upon  thee. 

The  way  struck  open  through  the  grave  to  heaven, 

And  needs  must  vaguely  feel  along  the  dark ! " 

"  Forgive  me,  sweet,  the  shadow  of  a  crown 
Swept   through    love's    sunshine,    and    my   heart   grew 

chill "  — 
So  said  the  recreant  prince,  half  penitent  — 

"  But  not,  my  little  empress,  false  to  thee, 
Nay,  look  upon  me  close  and  tenderly, 
For  I  am  like  the  child  that  pettishly 
Slips  down  the  nurse's  knees,  and  straight  climbs  up, 
Ending  his  pout  with  kisses  —  pry  thee,  smile. 
And  think  this  transient  mood  the  thing  it  was, 
A  hollow  bubble  on  the  sea  of  love, 
Which  thou  mayst  break  for  pastime,  pretty  one.^' 
As  one,  close  pressing  to  the  fountain's  brim. 
Crumbles  the  black  earth  off  into  the  wave. 
And  with  an  empty  pitcher  goes  away  — 
So  turned  she,  thirsting,  from  the  fount  of  joy. 
"  Sweet  Tlaara,  thou  wrongst  me,"  he  replied ; 
"  Thy  hands  put  down  the  flames  of  martyrdom. 
Dilating  for  me  like  the  eyes  of  fiends. 
And  with  their  gentle  tendance  through  long  days 
And  nights  of  exile,  made  me  strong  enough 
To  repossess  a  kingdom,  that,  henceforth. 
Shall  brighten  round  thy  beauty ;  on  thy  lip 
I  press  the  seal  of  true  allegiance. 
My  joy,  my  queen  forever  :  Art  content  ? 
Or  shall  I  swear,  by  every  soldier's  tomb, 
Sunken  along  the  war-grounds  of  the  past, 
My  soul  is  thine  henceforward,  nor  in  heaven. 
Nor  in  the  heaven  of  heavens,  is  light  enough 
To  sweep  thy  shadow  from  my  royalty. 
Command  it,  and  I  make  the  sweet  oath  o'er. 
Till  yonder  brightly  rising  planet  creeps 
Into  the  rosy  bosom  of  the  morn. 
And  the  day  breaks  along  the  orient, 
White  as  the  snow-top  mountain.     Dost  thou  weep  ? 


322  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Well,  let  thy  tears  wash  out  the  sad  mistrust, 
Darkening  the  beauty  of  serener  faith, 
And  we  be  lovers  as  we  were  before. 
My  life,  young  empress,  is  involved  in  thine 
As  water  is  in  water  :  mingling  waves, 
Catching  one  light  and  shade,  our  lives  shall  flow 
Till  they  strike  broken  on  the  ice  of  death. 
But  this,  our  happy  summering  of  love, 
Must  sometime  have  its  ending.     Yesterday 
We  had  been  just  as  ready  as  to-day. 
To-morrow  will  not  be  a  better  time. 
So  let  it  touch  its  limit,  here  and  now." 
"  Oh,  my  Hualco,  oh  my  best  beloved, 
If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  yet  remember  thou. 
When  glory  shall  grow  heavy  in  thy  hands. 
And,  with  its  burdening  circle,  thy  brows  ache, 
That  sober  twilight,  when,  erewhile,  weak  arms 
Folded  them  up,  thus,  with  a  crown  of  love. 
Oh,  think  of  her  who,  pressing  down  thy  cheek. 
Dared  to  look  up  into  thy  eyes  for  hope. 
Even  though  she  felt  its  lately  crimsoning  flowers. 
Burned  to  gray  ashes,  cold  beneath  her  lip. 
Think  how  her  trembling  hand  swept  off  thy  locks, 
As  one  who  lays  the  shroud  back  from  her  dead. 
And  gives  the  last  wild  kisses  to  the  dust." 
So  Tlaara  made  answer,  seeing  not 
How  night  stretched  tempest-like  along  the  sky, 
And  in  the  blustery  sea  the  tumbling  waves 
Shattered  the  gold  repeatings  of  the  stars, 
As  through  the  rents  of  darkness  they  looked  out; 
Only  the  silence  heard  the  anguished  cry  — 
"  Clasp  me  a  moment  longer ;  once  again 
Kiss  me,  and  say  you  love  me ;  once,  once  more. 
Put  back  this  fallen  hair,  as  yesternight ! 
Is  it  not  white  and  heavy,  like  dead  hair  ? 
This  burning  pain  must  bleach  the  blackness  out. 
I  cannot  hear  you  speak ;  I  cannot  feel 
Your  kisses  —  closer,  sweet !  nor  yet  —  nor  yet ; 
I  cannot  see  the  eyes  that  said  to  mine 
Their  speechless  love  so  kindly  —  God !  his  needs 
Are  all  above  my  answering  —  take  me  Thou." 
The  harvester  is  pleased  who  finds  a  flower 
Blood-red  or  golden,  in  the  dusky  wheat, 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLASCALA.  323 

Rustling  against  his  stooping,  but  the  child 

Laughs  for  its  beauty,  and  forgets  to  glean, 

Crumbling  its  leaves  with  kisses  manifold, 

Till  in  her  pastime,  idly  curious. 

She  turns  it  inside  out,  and  finds  it  black 

And  rough  with  poisonous  blisters.     Such  a  child 

Was  Tlaara,  and  such  a  flower,  her  love. 

She  saw  no  more  the  hills  of  Tlascala 

Crooking  their  monstrous  bases  in  and  out, 

To  give  the  light  capricious  stream  its  will  — 

Nor  saw  nor  heard  the  never  weary  sea, 

Fretting  its  way  through  marl  and  iron  sand 

To  fiery  opal  and  bright  chrysophrase : 

For  'twixt  her  eyes  and  all  the  sweet  discourse 

Nature,  our  quiet  mother,  makes  for  such 

As  wrap  their  pained  brows  in  her  green  skirts, 

Fear,  like  a  black  fen,  stretched  for  muddy  miles. 

She  only  saw  Hualco's  glorious  fate, 

And  in  its  shadow  a  poor  peasant  girl. 

Pining  forlorn.     Over  all  sounds  she  heard, 

Traveling  across  the  wild  and  piny  hills. 

And  over  many  a  reach  of  juniper, 

Prickly  with  brier  and  burr,  the  voice  of  war. 

Kegal  with  sunbeams,  which  the  journeying  days 

Trenched  in  their  ancient  snows,  the  mountains  seemed 

To  mock  her  low  estate ;  though  when  Love's  tongue 

Talked  of  the  self-same  splendor  once,  they  stood 

Serene  like  prophets,  under  whose  white  hairs 

The  lines  of  victory-seeing  thoughts  are  fixed. 

Beyond  their  bright  tops  great  Hualco  strained 

His  staring  eyes,  in  one  far-reaching  look. 

Fixed  on  that  glittering  pinnacle,  a  throne ; 

All  hope,  ail  love,  all  utmost  energy. 

To  one  determined  purpose  crucified. 

So  in  her  pictures  Fancy  fashioned  him ; 

Nor  did  she  with  deceiving  colors  paint. 

A  nation  from  its  slumbering  was  roused. 

And  centering  to  one  mortal  blow  the  strength 

Of  all  its  sinews.     On  ten  thousand  shells 

The  strings  were  stirred,'  axes  were  set  to  edge  ; 

The  while  the  morning  music  of  the  horn 

Went  doubling  on  the  track  of  Tyranny, 

And  startling  up  the  echoes,  that  ran  wild 


324  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Along  the  trembling  hill-tops,  in  full  cry. 
Kuffled  lay  Pazcuaro's  silver  waves 
Under  the  storm  melodious,  and  the  belt 
Of  black  and  shaggy  pines  that  Arrio  wore, 
With  deadly  spears  of  itzli,  bristled  bright; 
For  the  roused  realm  was  risen  to  replace 
The  usurped  scepter  in  the  kingly  hand 
Of  its  long  exiled  but  true  sovereignty. 

So  ended  "the  sweet  summering  of  love  "  — 
The  royal  lover  of  the  forest  maid 
Went  back  as  from  imprisonment,  like  him — 
The  wondrous  Mexic  of  the  olden  time  — 
Changed  to  the  morning  star,*  henceforth  to  shine 
Serenely  in  the  sky  of  victory. 
The  maiden  went  again  to  solitude, 
To  fight  alone  the  conflicts  of  the  heart. 
And  pray  that  Homeyoca  would,  in  love. 
Crop  the  wild  thoughts  that  climbed  about  a  throne, 
And  modulate  her  dreams  to  qualities 
Befitting  chaste  and  sad  humility, — 
But  oftener  to  cry  in  bitterness. 
As  Totec  t  from  the  house  of  sorrow  cried. 

The  blue-eyed  spring  with  all  her  blowing  winds. 
And  green  lap  brimming  o'er  with  dainty  sweets. 
Wakened  no  dulcet  light  about  her  heart ; 
Kor  nimble  dance  of  waves,  at  shut  of  eve. 
Under  the  charmed  moonlight,  nor  the  groves, 
With  all  their  leafy  arches  full  of  birds,  — 
Not  maddened  Jurruyo's  wild  sublimity, 
When,  from  his  hell  of  lava  tossing  high 
His  fiery  arms,  that  redden  all  the  heavens  — 
As,  from  his  forehead,  down  his  beard  of  pines, 
Trickle  the  blood-like  flames  —  could  fix  her  gaze. 
Or  keep  her  thoughts  from  wandering  on  the  way 
The  footsteps  of  her  kingly  lover  went. 
The  goats  grew  wild,  for  Tlaara  forgot 
The  times  of  milking ;  idle  stood  the  wheel, 
A  loom  for  spiders ;  to  the  heavy  length 
Of  the  dark  shadow,  keeping  pace  wdth  death. 
Her  sighs  drew  out  themselves,  and  listening  low 

*  Tolpicin,  the  first  Mexican  king,  it  was  believed,  was  changed  into  Venus,  the 
Morning  Star,  to  which  a  slave  was  sacrificed  on  its  first  appearance  in  every 
autumn.  —  Lord  Kingshorough. 

t  Lord  Kingshorough,  vi.  179. 


THE  MAIDEN   OF   TLASCALA.  325 

She  leaned  against  the  faded  face  of  earth, 

As  if  its  great  dumb  breast  could  move  with  life. 

The  lost  wayfaring  man,  whose  scanty  lamp 
In  the  wild  rainy  middle  of  the  night 
Burns  sudden  out  —  waits  patient  till  he  sees 
The  white-horned  Daybreak  pierce  the  cloudy  east, 
Traveling  alone  and  slow,  and  the  wet  woods 
AV^hich  from  his  mottled  forehead  parted,  black. 
Swing  goldenly  together.     But,  alas  ! 
In  the  white  dome  of  gentle  womanhood 
Love's  sunrise  knows  no  fellow.     Sweetest  heart  ! 
How  could  she  look  for  comfort  ?  idols  made 
Ko  answer  to  her  praying;  and  at  last. 
Out  of  this  sorrowful  continent  of  life 
Her  visions  failed  of  resting :  mortal  love 
Drew  back  the  hopes  which  vine-like  clomb  against 
The  columned  splendors  of  eternity. 
Forgive  her.  Thou,  whose  greatest  name  is  Love, 
If,  with  her  heaven  of  ruins  coupled  against 
The  chasms  that  divide  us  from  thy  throne. 
She  saw  imperfectly  —  saw  not  at  all  — 
For,  'twixt  the  fartherest  reach  of  human  eyes 
And  the  eternal  brightness  round  about  thee. 
There  lies  an  unsunned  shoal,  a  blank  of  gloom. 
Which  no  keen  continuity  of  thought 
Can  burn  or  blast  its  way  through,  till  the  grave 
Opens  its  heavy  and  obstructive  valves. 

Sometimes  she  plaited  berries  in  her  hair. 
And,  sitting  by  the  sea,  called  on  each  wave, 
As  it  had  been  her  lover,  to  come  up 
And  put  its  quieting  arm  around  her  neck, 
And  hug  her  close,  and  kiss  her  into  sleep  ; 
"  It  is  our  fault,  and  not  the  gods,"  she  said, 
"  If  we  outstay  our  pleasures,  pining  pale 
In  barren  isolation,  when  one  step 
Divides  us  only  from  the  realm  of  rest  — 
Is  it  not  so,  oh  great  and  friendly  sea  ?  " 
But  the  waves  put  their  beaded  foreheads  down 
Against  the  moon,  late  v/asting  in  their  arms. 
Now  blushing,  bashful,  for  her  beauty's  growth, 
And  left  her  waiting  on  the  wild,  wet  bank. 
Her  meditations  all  uncomforted. 
Sometimes  a  kindly  memory  would  pluck 


326  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

A  sunbeam  from  the  midday  of  her  love, 
And  grief  was  awed  to  silence,  and  her  heart 
Hushed  into  pulseless  calm,  as  is  the  bard 
What  time  some  grander  vision  than  the  rest, 
Swims,  planet-like,  along  his  starry  dreams. 

Oh,  what  a  terrible  day  for  Maxtala 
Was  hovering  in  the  rousing  of  that  host, 
That,  robbed  unjustly  of  its  majesty. 
Cried,  like  a  whelpless  lioness,  for  blood  ! 
As  the  cencoatli,*  with  its  fiery  coils 
Illumining  the  darkness,  warns  aside 
The  step  of  the  unequal  traveler, 
So  might  the  glitter  of  that  hydra's  front, 
Under  its  bossy  wilderness  of  shields. 
Have  warned  the  tyrant  from  the  onslaught  off. 

For  stripling  lovers,  maidens  all  the  day 
Busied  themselves  with  plumes,  or,  sedulous, 
Wrought  into  bracelets  gems  and  precious  stones; 
Some  green  like  emeralds,  some  divinely  white, 
And  some  with  streaky  brown  in  grounds  of  gold, 
With  milky  pearls,  and  sea-blue  amethysts, 
All  curiously  interwoven,  meet  to  please 
The  princely  eyes  of  the  discrowned  king. 
Through  the  green  passes  of  Tlacamama 
Struck  the  white  f  columns  of  young  warriors, 
Eager  to  wheel  into  the  battling  lines  — 
Armed  with  the  triple-pointed  tlalochtli, 
The  maquahuitl,  and  the  heavy  bow 
Strung  with  the  sinews  of  sea-cow,  or  lynx ; 
While  stern  old  men,  their  gray  hairs  winding  back, 
With  most  serene  and  steady  majesty. 
From  helms  of  tiger's  or  of  serpent's  heads. 
Went  forth  to  death  as  to  a  festival. 
Along  Mazatlan's  summits,  wild  and  high. 
The  gathered  legions  hovered  like  a  fleet. 
Dark  in  the  offing.     Ensigns  mingled  bright, 
Above  the  long  lines  lifted,  as  sometimes 
A  cloud  of  scarlet  hooded  zopilots  X 
Hangs  mute  along  the  sky,  foretelling  storms. 

*  A  serpent  that  in  the  dark  shines  like  a  glow-worm. 

t  When  first  going  to  war,  3'oung  men  were  dressed  in  a  simple  costume  of 
white.  —  Claviyero,  i.  365. 

X  Before  a  storm,  these  birds  are  often  seen  flying  in  vast  numbers,  high  under 
the  loftiest  clouds. 


THE  MAIDEN  OF   TLA SC ALA.  327 

Tizatlan's  heron,  wild  and  sad,  was  there, 
There  coiichant  lay  Tepeticpac's  fierce  wolf. 
The  bundle  of  sharp  arrows  in  his  paws, 
With  Mexic's  dread  armorial  hard  by  — 
The  eagle  and  the  tiger,  combatant ; 
While,  under  the  sea-city's  golden  net, 
Ocotelolco's  green  bird,  on  the  rock. 
In  lonely  beauty  waited  for  the  storm. 
Quick  sweeping  like  a  sea  loosed  from  its  bounds. 

So  was  Hualco's  kingdom  repossessed. 
So  was  the  tyrant  Maxtala  o'ercome. 
Oh  !  it  was  piteous  when  the  fight  was  done. 
And  the  moon  stood,  o'er  the  disastrous  field. 
In  pale  and  solemn  majesty,  as  one 
Fresh  from  the  kisses  of  the  dead,  to  see 
His  harmless  corse  decked  out  with  all  the  shows 
Befitting  the  fair  form  of  royalty, 
While  all  his  locks,  torn  from  their  net  of  gems, 
In  bloody  tangles  hung  about  his  eyes. 
Blind,  but  wide  glaring,  and  his  unknit  hands 
Clutched  at  the  dust  in  impotent  despair. 

And  he  whose  hunger-sunken  eyes  erewhile 
Burned  through  the  forests,  where  he  wandered  once 
Like  a  lamenting  shadow  —  was  a  king  ; 
And  the  delights  and  pastimes  of  a  court, 
The  expulsive  might  of  absence,  and  the  pride, 
Unfolding  and  dilating,  ring  by  ring. 
Under  the  sun  of  triumph  —  these,  ere  long, 
So  ministered  to  soft  forgetfulness. 
That  the  low  echo  of  forsaken  love 
Smote  on  his  heart  no  longer,  and  the  eyes 
That  of  his  praises  gathered  half  their  light, 
With  sorrowful  reproaches  vexed  no  more. 
Cold  god,  reposing  in  the  northern  ice. 
Whose  white  arms  nightly  reach  along  the  heavens  ! 
Search  out  the  stars,  malignant,  that  so  oft 
Have  crossed  the  orbit  of  divinest  bliss. 
And  draw  them,  with  some  pale  enchantment,  down 
From  the  good  constellations  —  all  their  lengths 
Of  shining  tresses,  making  them  so  fair. 
Coiling,  like  dying  serpents,  as  they  sink. 

'T  is  not  so  much  premeditated  wrong 
That  fills  the  world  with  sorrow  and  dismay, 


328    .  POEMS  BY  ALICE    GARY. 

As  influences  of  demons,  mischievous, 

Hurrying  impassioned  impulses  to  acts 

That  fast  and  penance  never  can  undo. 

This  is  my  theory,  and  right  or  wrong, 

'T  is  surely  higher  pleasure  to  believe 

That  men  are  better  than  they  seem,  than  worse. 

And  he,  this  prince  of  whom  my  story  is. 

Was  a  good  prince,  as  princes  be,  and  gave. 

On  every  day,  sweet  alms  and  charities, 

That  made  him  named  of  thousands  in  their  prayers ; 

His  reign  with  deeds  of  glory  was  so  strewed 

That  they  still  shine  upon  us  from  the  past, 

As  emeralds  and  ivory  shine  along 

The  sand-track  of  some  perished  caravan. 

Houses  of  skulls,  that  ere  while  all  the  hills 

Made  ghastly  white,  he  levelled,  and,  instead, 

Walled  with  tazontli,  pinnacled  with  gold; 

And  strong  with  beams  of  cedar  and  of  tir,. 

Along  the  ruins,  sacred  temples  rose ;  * 

About  his  throne  stood  lines  of  palaces 

Kissing  the  clouds,  exceeding  beautiful 

With  porphyry  columns,  and  lined  curiously 

With  that  white  stone  dividing  into  leaves ; 

And  baths  and  gardens,  and  soft-flowing  streams, 

Made  all  Tezcuco's  vale  a  goodly  sight. 

Schemes  pondering,  or  infirm  or  feasible. 

To  make  his  subjects  happy,  still  he  dwelt 

In  that  unrufiied  air  that  may  be  peace, 

But  was,  nor  then,  nor  ever  will  be,  bliss. 

And  all  his  people  loved  him  more  than  feared, 

Nor  looked  upon  his  crown  with  envious  eyes : 

Shall  the  small  lily,  growing  in  the  grass. 

Be  envious  of  the  aloe's  dome  of  flowers. 

That  keeps  the  blowing  winds  from  its  sweet  home  ? 

Or  shall  the  soft  cenzontli  hush  its  song 

And  pine,  in  the  green  shelter  of  the  bough. 

For  that  the  eagle,  silent  on  the  rock. 

Can  dip  his  plumage  in  the  sun  at  will? 

Once,  feasting  with  the  lord  of  Tepechan  — 
A  vassal  warrior,  whose  mighty  arm 
Had  hewn  his  way  to  many  victories  — 

*  lie  dedicated  his  temples,  says  Prescott,  to  the  unknown  God  — the  Cause  of 
Causes, 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLA SC A  LA.  329 

To  do  him  honors,  with  her  ministries, 

There  came  a  damsel  so  exceeding  fair, 

That,  with  the  light  of  her  dark  eyes  withdrawn, 

A  shadow  over  all  his  kingdom  went ; 

But  in  his  heart,  (for  love  is  prophecy,) 

He  felt  that  she  already  was  elect 

The  bride  of  him  whose  festive  guest  he  was. 

So,  to  himself,  to  justify  his  thought, 

He  said,*  "This  old  man  must  not  wed  this  maid, 

For  that  the  grave  will  cover  him  too  soon, 

And  so,  young  beauty  be  made  desolate : 

And  yet,  perchance,  not  absolute  for  that, 

(For  all  the  burdening  weight  of  threescore  years 

Lies  like  a  silver  garland  on  his  brow,) 

But  that  I  know  he  cannot  have  her  love, 

Or  having,  could  not  keep  it :  that  were  false 

To  all  of  Nature's  unwarpt  impulses ; 

It  is  as  if  a  budding  bough  should  blush 

Out  of  a  sapless  trunk ;  it  cannot  be  — 

Else  is  harsh  violence  to  reason  done. 

And  all  true  fitness  sunken  from  the  noon 

Into  the  twilight  of  uncertainty. 

Can  the  dull  mist,  where  the  swart  Autumn  hides 

His  wrinkled  front  and  tawny  cheek,  wind-shorn, 

Be  sprinkled  with  the  orange  light  that  binds 

Away  from  her  soft  lap,  o'erbrimmed  with  flowers, 

The  dew-wet  tresses  of  the  virgin  year  ? 

Or  can  the  morning,  bridegroomed  by  the  sun. 

Turn  to  the  midnight,  and  be  comforted  I 

So  for  their  larger  amplitude  of  weal, 

This  vagrant  fancy  —  for  "t  is  nothing  more  — 

Must  not  or  ever  shall  be  consummate. 

For  this  true  soldier  —  ah,  a  happy  thought  I  — 

I  '11  make  an  expedition  presently ; 

For  now  that  I  bethink  me,  in  the  wars 

His  arm  might  wield  a  heavy  truncheon  yet ; 

'T  were  good,  I  think,  he  wore  his  helmet  up  — 

A  brow  so  rounded  with  grave  majesty. 

Would  strike  a  sharper  terror  to  the  foe 

Than  all  the  triple  weapons  of  a  host. 

This  strength  of  his  't  were  pity  not  to  show. 

*  This  carious  history,  so  similar  to  that  of  David  and   Uriah,  is  related  by 
Prescott. 


330  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

He  hath  no  lack  of  courage,  but  alas ! 
He  does  not  know  his  own  supremacy; 
Aware  of  it,  I  '11  even  dare  be  sworn 
This  harmless  stratagem  were  rated  right; 
I  '11  make  a  hint  of  it  in  some  soft  way ; 
And,  for  the  princess,  there  may  chance  to  be 
Some  vacancy  i'  the  court  —  some  office  slight, 
Meet  for  the  gracing  of  her  gentle  hands. 
If  it  so  fall  —  I  know  not  if  it  will, 
(I  think  my  women  a  full  complement,)  — 
She  shall  not  want  my  kingly  privilege 
For  any  pretty  wilfulness  she  choose 
To  wing  the  hours  and  make  away  the  grief 
That  needs  must  follow  the  great  embassy, 
(Forced  on  alone  by  sharpest  exigence,) 
That  takes  this  old  man  back  into  the  field. 
For  he  will  scarcely  hope  to  come  alive, 
I  sorely  fear,  from  the  encounters  fierce 
And  perilous  offices  of  bloody  war." 

When  sleep  that  night  came  down  upon  the  eyes 
Of  the  good  prince  —  for  he  was  good,  withal, 
And  did  such  acts  as  are  immortalized  — 
He  saw  this  famous  lord  of  Tepechan 
Thrust  sidelong  in  a  ditch,  his  white  hair  stirred 
Under  the  bowlings  of  a  mountain  dog. 
That  surfeited  upon  his  shrunken  corse ; 
But  the  maid  came  to  him  in  fairer  guise  — 
He  heard  her  singing  through  the  palace  walls. 
Her  locks  down-flowing  from  a  wreath  of  pearls. 

This  was  a  dream,  and  when  the  king  awoke 
He  said  't  was  strange,  indeed  't  was  passing  strange, 
Nay,  quite  a  miracle,  that  sleeping  thoughts 
Should  take  no  guise  or  shape  of  reasoning 
That  ever  hath  possessed  our  waking  hours. 
But  balance,  rather,  on  insanity ! 

If  dreams  are  not  the  mirrors  of  the  past, 
They  sometimes  do  forerun  realities ; 
And  ere  the  day,  white  in  the  orient  then. 
Folded  with  striped  wings  the  evening  star, 
The  lord  of  Tepechan  had  taken  his  mace. 
And  sadly  the  fair  maiden,  in  his  shield. 
Was  weaving  feathers  for  the  field  of  war. 
And  if  the  king  had  any  troabling  thought 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLA  SC  A  LA.  331 

Of  the  old  love,  awakened  by  the  new, 

He  said,  'T  was  pity  it  had  ever  been  — 

Unequal  loves  were  never  prosperous : 

Yet  it  was  scarcely  love  —  the  chance  caprice 

Of  hours  of  indolence  —  by  Tlaara 

Doubtless  forgotten,  for  the  self-same  moons 

Had  filled  and  faded  over  her  and  him ; 

That  woman's  heart  at  best  was  like  the  stream 

Which  in  its  bosom  fondly  takes  the  flowers, 

Sown  idly  on  its  margin  by  the  winds, 

Or  palely  simple,  or  of  gorgeous  pride ; 

And  even  if  some  chance  wave  of  her  life 

Had  closely  held  his  image  for  a  while. 

The  tender  pallor  of  her  transient  grief. 

Under  the  summer's  golden  rustling. 

Had  long  flushed  back  to  beauty.     But  at  worst, 

Say  that  she  loved,  and  of  desertion  died ; 

Why,  thousands,  perished  in  the  wars,  wer^  ne'er 

With  pious  tears  lamented :  and  his  realm 

Had  right  to  claim  a  princess  for  its  queen ; 

And  if  long  centuries  of  joyance  sprung, 

And  flourished,  from  one  little  profitless  life, 

Who  would  dare  call  the  sacrifice  unjust  ? 

And  thus  he  laid  the  ghost  of  memory. 

So  like  a  very  truth  a  lie  may  seem 

I  think  the  elect  might  almost  be  deceived. 

Love,  that  warm  passion-flower  of  the  heart, 

Nursed  into  bloom  and  beauty  by  a  breath. 

Even  on  the  utmost  verge  of  human  life 

Dims  the  great  splendor  of  eternity. 

True,  some  have  trodden  it  beneath  their  feet, 

Led  by  that  bright  curse,  Genius,  and  have  gone 

On  the  broad  wake  of  visions  wonderful. 

And  seemed,  to  the  dull  mortals  far  below, 

Unravelling  the  web  of  fate,  at  will. 

And  leaning  on  their  own  creative  power, 

Defiant  of  its  beauty :  but,  alas  ! 

Along  the  climbing  of  their  wildering  way. 

Many  have  faltered,  fallen  —  some  have  died, 

Still  wooing,  from  across  the  lapse  of  years. 

The  roseate  blushing  of  its  virgin  pride. 

And  feeding  sorrow  with  its  faded  bloom ; 

For  not  the  almost-omnipotence  of  mind 


332  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Can  from  its  aching  bind  the  bleeding  heart, 
Or  keep  at  will  its  mighty  sorrow  down. 
Our  mortal  needs  ask  mortal  ministries, 
And  o'er  the  lilies  in  the  crown  of  heaven. 
Even  in  ruins,  love's  earth-growing  flower. 
While  we  are  earthy,  showeth  eminent. 

When  the  calm  beating  of  the  pulse  of  time 
That  keeps  right  on,  nor  for  our  joys  or  griefs 
Quickens  or  flags,  had  measured  years,  unblest 
Or  bright,  as  fate  their  passage  made, 
Hualco's  fair  and  gentle  servitor, 
Faithless  and  recreant  to  the  veteran  chief. 
Within  the  folding  arms  of  royalty 
Sheltered  the  blushing  of  her  crowned  brows. 
And  Tlaara  !     Ah,  could  they  only  feel. 
Who  are  the  ministers  of  ill  to  us. 
That  we  are  hungry  while  they  keep  their  feasts ; 
That  in  our  Ijearts  the  blood  is  warm  and  bright. 
Though  our  cheeks  shrivel,  and  our  feeble  steps 
Crack  up  the  harvestless  ridges  where  we  starve  !  — 
For  desolate,  wronged  Tlaara  was  left 
Only  the  wretched  change  of  misery. 
The  imperial  triumphs  sounded  through  the  hills, 
With  undertones  of  the  perpetual  songs 
Of  gayety,  and  splendor,  and  delights, 
Or,  right  or  wrong,  that  most  in  palaces 
Have  had  dominion  from  the  earliest  time  ; 
And  she  as  one  doomed,  innocent,  to  death, 
Fast  in  the  shadows  of  his  columns  chained, 
Saw  her  brief  visions  faded  to  the  hues 
Of  fixed  and  damnable  realities. 
Night  had  shut  up  her  little  day  of  love 
With  all  its  leafy  whispers ;   in  her  sky 
The  sunset  like  a  wivern  winged  with  fire 
Had  burned  the  flowery  thickets  of  the  clouds 
And  left  them  black  and  lonesome,  and,  like  eyes 
In  the  wide  front  of  some  dead  beast,  the  stars. 
Filmy  and  blank,  stared  on  her  out  of  heaven. 
I  said  she  knew  the  change  of  misery, 
The  pain  but  not  the  glory  of  the  crew 
Of  rebel  angels,  whose  undying  pride 
Like  a  bruised  serpent  towers  against  their  doom, 
Even  while  their  webbed  and  flabby  wings,  once  bright, 


THE   MAIDEN   OF   TLASCALA.  333 

Lie  wrinkling,  flat,  on  waves  of  liquid  fire. 

Sometimes  she  told  the  imbetraying  ghosts 
Of  her  dead  joys  —  the  story  of  her  life, 
Portraying,  phase  by  phase,  from  love  to  hate : 
''The  day,"  she  said,  "  was  over:  on  the  hills 
The  parting  light  was  flitting  like  a  ghost; 
And  like  a  trembling  lover  eve's  sweet  star, 
In  the  dim  leafy  reach  of  the  thick  woods, 
Stood  waiting  for  the  coming  down  of  night. 
But  it  was  not  the  beiauty  of  the  time 
That  thrilled  my  heart  with  tempests  of  such  joys 
As  shake  the  bosom  of  a  god,  new-winged. 
When  first  in  his  blue  pathway  up  the  skies. 
He  feels  the  embrace  of  immortality. 
A  moment's  bliss,  and  then  the  world  was  changed  — 
Truth,  like  a  planet  striking  through  the  dark, ' 
Shone  clear  and  cold,  and  I  was  what  I  am, 
Listening  along  the  wilderness  of  life 
For  the  faint  echoes  of  lost  melody. 
The  moonlight  gathered  itself  back  from  me. 
And  slanted  its  pale  pinions  to  the  dust; 
The  drowsy  gust,  bedded  in  luscious  blooms. 
Startled,  as  at  the  death-throes  of  all  peace, 
Down  through  the  darkness  moaningly  fled  off. 
God,  hide  from  me  the  time !  for  then  I  knew 
Hualco's  shame  of  me,  a  low-born  maid. 
I  could,  I  think,  have  lifted  up  my  hands. 
Though  bandaged  back  with  grave-clothes,  in  that  hour, 
To  cover  my  hot  forehead  from  his  kiss. 
And  yet,  false  love  !  I  loved  thee  —  listening  close 
From  the  dim  hour  when  twilight's  rosy  hedge 
Sprang  from  the  field  of  sunset,  till  deep  night 
Swept  with  her  cloud  of  stars  the  face  of  heaven, 
For  the  quick  music  of  thy  hurrying  step. 
And  if,  without  some  cold  and  sunless  cave 
Thou  hadst  lain  lost  and  dying,  prompted  not. 
My  feet  had  struck  that  pathway,  and  I  could, 
With  the  neglected  sunshine  of  m}^  hair. 
Thence  clasped  thee  from  the  hungry  jaws  of  death, 
And  on  my  heart,  as  on  a  wave  of  light. 
Have  lulled  thee  to  the  beauty  of  soft  dreams. 

"  Weak,  womanish  imaginings,  begone ! 
Let  the  poor-spirited  children  of  despair 


334  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Hang  on  the  sepulchre  of  buried  hope 

The  liery  garlands  of  their  love-lorn  songs. 

Though  such  gift  turned  on  its  pearly  hinge 

Sweet  Mercy's  gate,  I  would  not  so  debase  me. 

Shut  out  from  heaven  and  all  the  blessed  saints, 

I,  from  the  arch-fiend's  wing,  as  from  a  star, 

Would  gather  yet  some  splendor  to  my  brows, 

And  tread  the  darkness  with  a  step  of  pride. 

For  what  is  love  ?  a  pretty  transiency. 

An  unsubstantial  cheat,  which  for  a  while 

Makes  glad  the  commonest  way,  but  like  the  dew 

Which  sunbeams  reach  and  take  from  us,  it  fades  - 

Our  very  smiles  do  dry  and  wither  it. 

What  is  't  to  leave  the  washing  of  my  cheeks 

Out  of  its  flower-cups,  and  go  mateless  on 

Across  the  ages  to  eternity  ? 

Farewell,  my  prince,  my  king,  a  last  farewell ! 

My  love  is  all  for  fame,  and  from  this  hour 

Against  my  bosom  with  a  fonder  clasp 

Than  ever  given  to  thee,  I  treasure  it. 

Thy  queen  is  fair  —  I  give  thee  joy  of  her, 

And  in  the  shadow  of  thy  royal  state 

Stoop  low  my  knee  to  say  I  do  not  hate  her ; 

She  has  no  measure  in  herself  wherewith 

To  gauge  my  nature  :  she  is  powerless 

To  lift  her  littleness  into  my  scorn  ; 

Xo  thought  of  hers  outreaches  a  plume's  length — 

If  any  time  I  cross  or  tread  on  her, 

'T  is  that  I  see  her  not  more  than  the  worm 

Knotting  itself  for  anger  at  my  feet  — 

My  feet,  now  planted  on  the  burnt,  bare  rocks, 

Under  whose  bloodless  ribs  the  river  of  death 

Runs  black  with  mortal  sorrow.     Vex  me  not 

With  your  low  love ;  my  heart  is  mated  with 

The  steadfast  splendor  of  the  world  of  fame. 

What  care  have  I  for  daisies  or  for  dew. 

The  quail's  wild  whistle  or  the  robin's  song, 

Or  childhood's  prattlings,  sweeter  though  they  be 

Than  rainy  meadows,  blue  with  violets  ? 

The' walls  built  firm  against  the  massy  heights 

That  stay  me  up  so  well,  are  seamed  with  gold, 

Sparkling  like  broken  granite,  and  green  stalks 

Run  up  the  unfrequent  paths,  lifting  their  blooms 


THE  MAIDEN  OF   TLA  SC A  LA.  335 

Into  the  long  still  sunshine,  where  no  change 

Shall  ever  earth  them  up.     It  is  in  vain 

Ye  tempt  me  from  my  steady  footing  back 

To  the  dim  level  of  mortality. 

What !  think  you  I  would  leave  this  pain-bought  place 

For  Love's  soft  beckoning  ?     Nay,  ye  know  me  not. 

Though  the  wild  stormy  North  with  fretful  wings 

Flew  at  my  fastness  till  it  toppled  hard 

Against  hell's  hollow  bosom,  even  then 

Rocked  like  the  cradle  of  a  baby-god, 

I  would  not  yield  my  glory  a  hair's  breadth. 

But  gathering  courage  like  a  mantle  up. 

Would  smile  betwixt  the  harmless  thunderbolts." 

So,  with  a  thousand  idle  vagaries. 
She  cooled  the  lire,  slow-burning  out  her  life ; 
And  when  the  fit  was  gone,  there  came  remorse, 
And  she  would  say,  "  Forgive  me,  piteous  gods  ! 
I  had  a  maddening  fever  in  my  brain 
That  made  me  turn  the  horny  point  of  hate 
Which  should  have  been  bent  sharpest  on  myself, 
Against  the  heart  of  my  sweet  lord,  the  king. 
Nay,  wherefore  should  I  ask  to  be  forgiven  ? 
A  maniac's  bitter  raving  is  not  prayer  — 
That  is  a  hope,  concentrate  and  sincere. 
That  reaches  up  to  heaven ;  words  that  are  lipt 
By  the  anointed  priesthood,  day  by  day, 
May  need  more  to  be  prayed  for  than  the  curse 
Of  a  profane,  unmeditative  mood. 

"  Mine  !  he  is  all  mine  !  she  may  bear  his  name. 
Or  in  the  golden  shadows  of  his  crown 
Strut  a  brief  day ;  more,  call  herself  his  wife, 
If  that  a  sound  can  give  her  any  joy ; 
But  if,  from  the  close  foldings  of  my  heart, 
She  can  undo  his  love  and  make  it  hers. 
And  me  forgotten  —  then  she  has  more  skill 
Than  any  woman  here  in  Tlascala. 
In  some  green  leafy  closet  of  the  woods 
I  will  go  fast,  till  that  the  maiden  moon, 
Walking  serene  above  her  worshippers. 
With  some  cold  angry  shaft  shall  strike  me  dead. 
My  cunning  soul  shall  free  my  body  yet 
From  these  wild  wasting  pains,  and  from  the  scorn 
Of  that  bad  woman  whose  most  wicked  wiles 


336  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Have  wronged  the  excellent  king,  and  me  have  wronged. 

But  that  is  nothing :  why  should  I  have  said 

That  I  had  any  harms  ?  they  all  are  his. 

Else  will  I  go  into  some  ngly  cave 

Where  vipers  lodge,  and  choke  them  till  they  sting 

And  make  me  but  a  spirit.     I  will  build 

A  palace  with  a  window  toward  the  earth, 

And   train   white    flowers  —  my  lord    loves   best   white 

flowers  — 
And  if  there  be  a  language  more  divine 
Than  love  knows  here,  I  '11  learn  it,  though  it  take 
Half  the  long  ages  of  eternity." 

There  came  into  the  groves  of  Tlascala 
An  old  man  from  the  wars,  where  he  had  worn 
Commands  and  victories,  and  won  such  fame 
That  with  the  names  of  gods  his,  intertwined, 
Was  seen  in  temples,  yet  by  some  great  pain 
So  bowed,  that  even  the  basest  jjitied  him ; 
And  he,  to  soothe  her  grief  with  other  grief, 
Eecited  all  the  story  of  his  life : 
How  a  king's  hands  unlocked  from  his  gray  hairs 
The  clasped  arms  of  tenderness,  and  struck 
His  bright  hopes  into  ruins,  so  that  life 
Had  lingered  on,  a  sorrowful  lament, 
Waking  no  piteous  echo  but  the  grave's. 
"  But  thou,"  he  said,  "  fair  maiden,  thou  and  I  — 
Complainings  ill  befit  the  sunset  time 
That  folds  earth's  shadow,  like  a  poison  flower, 
And  leaves  life's  last  waves  brokenly  along 
The  unknown  borders  of  eternity. 
'T  is  an  extremity  that  warns  us  back 
From  staggering  on,  alas !  we  know  not  what. 
With  hatred's  damning  seal  upon  our  souls. 
How  shall  we  ask  for  mercy  ?     Shall  the  gods 
Forgive  the  unforgiving  ?  or  sweet  Peace 
The  red  complexion  of  the  scorner's  cheek 
Fold  to  her  quiet  bosom  ?     Nay,  my  child, 
We  have  not  in  the  world  an  enemy 
Bad  as  that  pride,  which  sets  its  devil  strength. 
Against  the  grave,  the  gods,  and  everything. 

Then  she  who  was  so  meekly  calm  before, 
Half  rising  out  of  death,  as  if  that  plea 
Tightened  the  coil  of  woe  about  her  heart, 


THE  MAIDEN  OF   TLASCALA.  337 

Answered,  "  What  demon  comes  to  torture  me  ? 

Forgive  !     The  word  sounds  well  enough,  in  sooth ; 

But  say  it  to  the  tigress,  when  she  licks 

Their  streaky  beauty  from  the  smoking  blood 

That  drenches  her  dead  cubs ;  and  will  she  fawn, 

And  her  fierce  eyes  grow  meekly  sorrowful, 

And  her  dilated  nostril  in  the  dust 

Cower  humbly  at  your  feet  ?     I  tell  you,  no !  — 

That  is  a  word  for  injury  to  use 

In  penitent  supplication  ;  not  for  her, 

Whose  heartstrings  quiver  in  the  torturer's  hand. 

I  know  no  use  for  it ;  nor  gods  nor  men. 

Require  of  us  forgiveness  of  a  foe 

Till  his  true  grief  give  warranty  to  us 

That  the  forgiven  may  be  trusted  too. 

Dying !  thou  sayest  I  'm  dying !  yes,  't  is  true ! 

I  feel  the  tide  outflowing!  —  and  for  this 

Shall  I  in  womanish  weakness  falter  out, 

*  See,  piteous  gods  !  how  I  forgive  this  man. 

And  lovingly  kiss  his  murderous  hand,  withal, 

And  so,  sweet  Homeyoca,  rest  my  soul ! ' 

Urge  me  no  longer !  in  the  close,  cold  grave 

The  heart  is  done  with  aching,  and  the  eyes 

Are  troubled  with  love's  changes  never  more. 

The  palace  splendors  cannot  reach  me  there, 

Nor  pipes  nor  dances  wake  my  heavy  sleep  — 

The  dead  are  safe.     Look,  friend,  is  that  the  day 

Breaking  so  white  along  the  cloudy  east  ? 

Not  since  the  fading  of  my  lovelit  dream 

Have  I  beheld  a  light  so  heavenly. 

Nature  seems  all  astir  ;  the  tree-tops  move 

As  with  birds  going  through  them,  and  the  dews 

Hang  burning,  lamp-like,  thick  among  the  leaves 

All  the  long  year  past  I  have  risen  betimes. 

For  sake  of  morning  purples  and  rich  heaps 

Of  red-brown  broideries  —  shaping  in  my  thought 

The  gorgeous  chamber  of  a  queen,  the  while 

I  penned  my  goats  for  milking;  but  till  now 

The  sun  streaks  have  run  glistering  round  the  rocks, 

Or  doubled  up  the  clouds  like  snakes,  dislodged. 

Once,  I  remember,  when  I  staid,  alone. 

Hunting  along  the  woods  —  my  playfellows 

Gone  homeward,  dragging  cherry -boughs  and  grapes  — 


338  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

A  brooding  splendor,  large  about  me  shone, 
As  if  the  queen  moon  met  me  in  my  way, 
And  in  her  white  hands  held  me  for  an  hour. 
That  night  my  mossy  bed  was  covered  bright 
With  skins  of  ounces ;  drowsing  into  sleep, 
I  heard  the  simples  simmering  at  the  fire ; 
Heard  my  scared  housemates  whispering  each  to  each 
That  I  was  marked  and  singled  out  for  harm. 
Like  buds  that  sprout  together  on  one  bough. 
Brightening  one  window,  so  we  grew  and  bloomed  — 
I  and  those  merry  children ;  some  are  gone 
To  the  last  refuge  —  some  contented  stay 
Along  the  valleys  where  the  hedgerows  keep 
The  summer  grass  bright  longest.     When  we  played 
On  hill  or  meadow,  oft  I  left  the  sports 
To  climb  the  rough  bare  sea-cliffs ;  when  we  sung 
I  mocked  the  screaming  eagle ;  when  we  sought 
Flowers  for  our  pastimes,  I  was  sure  to  bring 
The  brightest  and  most  deadly  —  't  was  the  bent 
Of  my  audacious  nature.     Like  the  dove. 
That  foolish  sits  upon  the  serpent's  eggs, 
Nor,  till  she  feels  beneath  her  pretty  wings 
The  stirring  of  the  cold  white-bellied  brood, 
Flies  to  the  shelter  of  her  proper  home, 
So  has  it  been  with  me ;  soft,  I  untied 
The  hands  that  set  the  pitfall.     I  am  down, 
Yet  proud  Hualco,  girt  in  armor,  fears 
To  leap  into  the  dark  with  me,  and  take 
The  embrace  of  my  weak  arms.     Erect  and  free 
He  dare  not  mock  me,  fallen  and  in  bonds ; 
For  who  would  tempt  the  hungry  lioness 
With  the  fresh  look  of  blood  ?     Though  I  were  dead, 
If  he  were  near,  my  stagnant  life  would  stir, 
And  I  would  close  upon  immortal  power 
To  crack  the  close  grave  open  and  come  up. 
To  scare  him  whiter  than  his  marriage  bed- 
It  cannot  be,  if  justice  be  alive. 
That  he  shall  hover,  ghoul-like,  round  my  corse, 
And  blight  the  simple  flowers  I  change  into; 
It  cannot  be  that  the  great  lidless  eye 
Of  Truth  will  never  stare  into  his  heart. 
And  search  its  sinful  secrets,  withering  off 
The  leprous  scales  of  perjury  wherein 


THE   MAIDEN  OF   TLASCALA.  339 

They  are  peeled  up. 

"  Ye  hated,  monstrous  things, 
Whose  trade  is  torment,  in  your  troughs  of  fire 
Kock  idly,  drawing  back  your  ugly  heads 
Into  their  proper  caverns  :  no  sharp  tooth 
Wounds  like  the  stinging  of  a  conscience  roused ! 
Leave  him  to  that :  he  cannot  'scape  it  long. 
I  pray  no  mercy ;  beyond  mortal  strength 
Men  may  be  tempted  —  I  am  human,  too. 
If,  thirsting  in  a  desert,  one  draw  near 
With  golden  cups  of  water  in  his  hands, 
How  hardly  do  we  fill  our  mouths  with  dust ; 
If  fever  parch  us,  pleasant  is  the  dew 
Of  kisses  dropping  cold  against  the  cheek  ; 
And  brows  like  mine  that  the  wild  rains  have  wet. 
Take  kindly  to  the  shelter  of  a  crown. 
Plead  with  me  as  you  will :  since  love  is  lost, 
I  have  small  care  for  any  blackest  storm 
That  e'er  may  mock  my  gray  unhonored  hairs. 
Life's  unlinked  chains,  in  the  quick  opening  grave. 
May  rust  together  —  this  is  all  my  hope. 
I  scorn  thee  not,  old  man !  no  haunting  ghost. 
Born  of  the  darkness  of  love's  perjury, 
Crosses  the  white  tent  of  thy  dreaming  now ; 
And  if  thy  palsy-shaken  years,  or  death, 
Move  thee,  in  solacing  confessional, 
To  register  forgiveness  of  all  foes  — 
I  speak  not  now,  my  friend,  to  keep  thee  back. 
But  for  myself  —  I  tell  thee,  I  have  loved, 
More  than  I  have  the  gods,  this  faithless  king, 
And  feeling  that  for  this  my  doom  was  sealed. 
Have  1  in  sorrow  cried  unto  the  saved, 
'  From  the  high  walls  of  Mercy  lean  sometimes. 
And,  parting  the  thick  clouds  that  roof  the  lost. 
Give  me  the  comfort  of  some  blessed  sign 
That  tells  me  he  is  happy.'     That  is  passed ! 
Pray,  if  thou  wilt  —  my  lips  are  dumb  of  prayer.'* 

Struck  with  the  lovely  ruin,  ebbing  life 
Sent  for  a  moment  its  live  currents  back, 
Swelling  his  shrunken  veins  to  knotty  blue; 
And  a  faint  hope  illumined  his  old  eyes. 
As  if  the  sea  of  anguish  lost  a  w^ave ; 
And  kneeling  humbly  at  her  feet,  he  said  — 


340  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

"  Ye  gods !  reach  lovingly  across  the  grave 
To  the  great  sorrow  of  this  death-winged  prayer, 
And  for  its  sake  about  this  sweet  soul  wrap 
Blest  immortality  !  be  piteous,  Heaven, 
For  she  is  murdered  by  inconstancy ! 
Bend  softly  low,  and  hear  her  cruel  wrongs 
Plead  for  her  who  will  plead  not  for  herself. 
"  I  had  a  wound  erewhile,  and  now,  alas ! 
It  bleeds  afresh  to  see  her  die  so  proud ; 
Yet  doth  she  make  pride  beautiful,  and  lies 
Drowsing  to  death  in  its  majestic  light, 
Like  a  bee  sleeping  in  a  golden  flower. 
The  hot  salt  waters  brim  up  to  my  eyes. 
To  think  of  her,  so  fit  for  life's  delights. 
Buried  down  low  in  the  brown  heavy  earth, 
Where  the  rude  beast  may  tread  and  nettles  grow 
I  have  seen  death  in  many  a  fearful  form, 
For  I  have  been  a  soldier  all  my  life ; 
Have  pillowed  on  my  breast  a  thousand  times 
Some  comrade  in  his  last  extremity; 
But  now  my  heart,  unused  to  such  a  strait, 
Plays  the  weak  woman  with  me.  •    Fighting  once 
In  the  thick  front  of  battle,  I  beheld 
Oar  grim  foe  open  wide  his  red-leaved  book ; 
I  felt  his  cold  hand  touch  me ;  saw  him  fix 
His  filmy  eyes  and  write,  I  thought,  my  name; 
Yet  I  was  calm,  and  laying  down  my  lance. 
Sought  to  embrace  him  as  a  soldier  should. 
I  was  young  then,  and  fair  luxuriant  locks 
Hung  thick  about  my  brows ;  life  had  no  chance 
I  feared  to  combat  with  a  single  hand ; 
Now  I  am  better  s^Dared  —  old  and  unfit 
For  wars  or  gamesome  pastimes  —  but  have  lost 
The  sweet  grace  of  a  brave  surrendering. 
Oh,  I  have  scarce  a  minute  more  to  live ; 
I  feel  the  breaking  up  of  human  scenes ; 
Time,  block  your  swiftly  moving  wheels,  I  pray, 
And  make  delay,  for  pity  ;  Evening,  keep 
Your  blushing  cheek  under  the  sun  awhile. 
And  give  my  gray  hairs  one  repentant  hour ! 
My  vision  cannot  fix  you,  my  sweet  child ; 
Undo  my  helm,  and  lay  it  with  my  bow  — 
Nay  —  't  is  no  matter  —  lay  it  anywhere. 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TLA SC ALA.  341 

So,  sit  and  sing  for  me  some  mournful  song, 
And  I  will  grow  immortal,  in  the  dream 
That  you  are  that  most  fair  and  gentle  maid 
Who  tended  once  the  chief  of  Tepechan." 

I  know  not  if  't  is  true,  they  often  say 
Of  this  intenser  action  of  the  mind. 
That  it  is  madness  :  she  of  whom  I  sing, 
Lost,  loving  Tlaara,  in  realms  apart 
From  joy  or  sorrow,  made  herself  a  world, 
Nor  sight  she  saw  nor  sound  she  heard  they  knew 
Who  followed,  pitying,  all  her  wayward  steps, 
Or  added  wonder  at  her  strange  wild  words. 

One  sunny  summer  day  in  Tlascala, 
Midway  from  its  warm  fields  to  where  its  peak, 
That  slept  in  songs  eternal,  calmly  shone. 
She  from  a  mountain  gazed,  as  set  the  sun, 
Down  on  the  mightiest  and  the  loveliest  land 
In  history  seen  or  in  prophetic  dreams. 
But  not  Tezcuco  Chalco,  Xalcotan, 
Upon  whose  waves  gay  moved  the  fishers'  boats, 
Nor  towers,  nor  temples,  nor  fair  palaces. 
Nor  groves  that  rose  in  green  magnificence. 
One  glance  could  win  from  her  far-looking  eyes. 
In  natural  music  died  the  beautiful  day. 
Grew  black  the  bases  of  the  terraced  hills. 
And  their  mid  regions,  of  a  slumberous  blue, 
Faded  to  roseate  silver  toward  the  skies. 
Along  whose  even  field  the  horned  moon 
Walked,  turning  golden  furrows  on  the  clouds. 
At  last  was  set  the  night's  most  dark  eclipse. 
And  yet  she  saw,  or  seemed  to  see  arise 
Tezcuco's  capital,  within  whose  walls 
What  maddening  scenes  her  jealous  fancy  drew ! 

The  midnight  passed,  and  lifting  up  her  eyes, 
From  that  long  vigil,  she  beheld  afar 
The  awful  burning  of  volcanic  fires, 
Which  seemed  as  if  had  fled  ten  thousand  stars 
From  all  their  orbits,  leaving  heaven  in  gloom. 
Save  where  they  crashed  in  terrible  fire  alone. 
Crashed  in  tumultuous  rage  ;  as  if  each  one. 
Fearful  of  Night,  claimed  the  most  central  heats. 
She  saw  unmoved,  for  now  was  left  no  more 
Or  fear  or  hope  —  the  ultimate  secret  read 


342  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

Of  that  too  common  but  dread  history. 

She  only  said,  how  cahnly !  "  The  slim  reed 

That  grows  beside  the  most  untraveled  road, 

With  its  wild  blossoms  yet  may  bless  the  eyes 

Of  some  chance  pilgrim ;  over  the  dead  tree 

Mosses  run  bright  together  ;  in  the  hedge 

The  prickles  of  the  thistle's  bluish  leaves 

Hold  all  day,  spike-like,  shining  globes  of  dew ; 

Even  from  the  stonyest  crevice,  some  stray  thorn 

May  crook  its  knotty  body  toward  the  sun, 

And  give  the  ant-hill  shelter,  but  my  death 

Will  desolate  no  homely  spot  of  earth. 

No  eyes,  when  I  am  gone,  will  seek  the  ground ; 

No  voice  will  falter,  when  the  flowers  come  up  — 

*  If  she  were  only  with  us  !  such  a  time 

We  were  so  blest  together.'     I  would  leave 

(My  frailty  and  my  follies  all  forgot) 

A  pleasant  memory  somewhere.     As  we  look 

With  pining  eyes  upon  the  faded  year. 

Forgetful  of  the  vexing  winds,  that  took 

The  green  tops  of  the  woods  down ;  picking  bare 

The  limbs  of  shining  berries  and  gay  leaves  — 

So  would  I  leave  some  friend  to  think  of  me. 

The  wild  bird,  when  its  mate  dies,  stays  for  grief, 

Sad,  under  lonesome  briers ;  but,  mateless,  I 

Fall  like  a  pillar  of  the  desert  dust. 

Struck  from  its  barren  drifting  in  the  waste  — 

No  twig  left  wilting,  with  its  root  unearthed. 

White  bleaching  in  the  sun  —  no  insect's  wing, 

Trembling,  uncertain  for  its  lighting,  lost. 

Like  to  the  star  that  in  night's  black  abysm 

Trails  itself  out  in  light,  the  human  heart 

Wastes  all  its  life  in  love  —  that  sacrifice 

The  consummation  of  diviner  bliss 

Than  he  can  feel,  who,  looking  from  a  dream 

Sees  palpable,  his  soul's  unchambered  thoughts 

Moving  along  the  ages,  calm  and  bright. 

Like  mighty  wings,  spread  level.     It  is  well 

Earth's  fair  things  fade  so  soon,  else  for  their  sake 

Mortals  would  slip  from  their  eternity 

And  pleased,  go  downward  from  the  hills  of  heaven, 

Hurtled  to  death  like  beasts  ;  nay,  even  they, 

Decked  for  the  shambles,  impotently  shake 


THE  MAIDEN   OF   TLA SC ALA.  343 

The  flowers  about  their  foreheads  —  madly  wise. 

Oh,  Love,  thou  art  almost  omnipotent! 

Thy  beauty,  more  than  faith  or  hope,  at  last, 

Lights  the  black  offing  of  the  noiseless  sea. 

'T  is  hard  to  leave  thy  sweetest  company 

And  turn  our  steps  into  the  dark,  alone: 

If  he  were  waiting  for  me  I  could  pass 

Death  and  the  grave  —  yea,  hell  itself,  unharmed. 

In  the  gray  branches  of  the  starlit  oaks, 

I  hear  the  heavy  murmurs  of  the  winds, 

Like  the  low  plaints  of  evil  spirits,  held 

By  drear  enchantments  from  their  demon  mates. 

Another  night-time,  and  I  shall  have  found 

A  refuge  from  their  mournful  prophecies." 

Then,  as  if  seeing  forms  none  else  could  see, 
With  deepening  melancholy  in  each  word. 
She  said,  "Come  near,  and  from  my  forehead  smooth 
These  long  and  heavy  tresses,  still  as  bright 
As  when  their  wave  of  beauty  bathed  the  hand 
That  unto  death  betrayed  me.     Nay,  't  is  well ! 
I  pray  you  do  not  weep ;  no  other  fate 
Were  half  so  fitting  for  me.     On  the  grave 
Light,  from  the  open  gate  of  Peace,  is  laid. 
And  Faith  leans  yearningly  away  to  heaven ; 
But  life  hath  glooms  wherein  no  light  may  come. 
There,  now  I  think  I  have  no  further  need  — 
For  unto  all,  at  last,  there  comes  a  time 
When  no  sweet  care  can  do  us  any  good ! 
Not  in  my  life  that  I  remember  of. 
Could  my  neglect  have  injured  any  one, 
And  if  I  have,  by  ray  officious  love. 
Thrown  harmful  shadows  in  the  way  of  some, 
Be  piteous  to  my  natural  weaknesses  — 
I  never  shall  offend  you  any  more ! 

"  And  now  most  melancholy  messenger. 
Touch  mine  eyes  gently  with  Sleep's  heavy  dew ; 
I  have  no  wish  to  struggle  from  thy  arms, 
Nor  is  there  any  hand  would  hold  me  back. 
The  night  is  very  dismal,  yet  I  see. 
Over  yon  hill,  one  bright  and  steady  star 
Divide  the  darkness  with  its  fiery  spear, 
And  sprinkle  glory  on  the  lap  of  earth. 
And  the  winds  take  the  sounds  of  lullabies. 


344  POEMS  BY  ALICE   CARY. 

Fretf al  of  present  fortune  are  we  all, 
Still  to  be  blest  to-morrow ;  through  the  boughs 
Murmurous  and  cool  with  shadows,  we  reach  out 
Our  naked  arnis,  and  when  the  noontide  heat 
Consumes  us,  talk  of  chance,  and  fate. 
Even  from  the  lap  of  Love  we  lean  away- 
Like  a  sick  child  from  a  kind  nurse's  arms, 
And  petulantly  tease  for  any  toy 
A  hand-breadth  out  of  reach ;  and  from  the  way 
Where  hedge  and  harvest  blend,  irregular, 
Their  bordering  of  green  and  gold,  we  turn 
And  climb  up  ledges  rough  and  verdureless. 
And  when  our  feet,  through  weariness  and  toil. 
Have  gained  the  heights  that  showed  so  brightly  well, 
Our  blind  and  dizzied  vision  sees,  too  late. 
The  forks  of  thickets  running  in  and  out 
Betwixt  their  jagged  bases,  and  glad  springs, 
Wooing  the  silence  with  a  silver  tongue. 
And  then  our  feeble  hands  let  slip  the  staff. 
That  helpt  our  fruitless  journej^  and  our  cheeks 
Shrivel  from  smiles  and  roses ;  so  our  sun 
Goes  clouded  down,  and  to  the  young  bold  race. 
Close  treading  in  our  footsteps,  we  are  dust. 
Thus  ends  the  last  delusion ;  well  —  't  is  well." 

A  moment,  and  as  some  rough  wind  that  sweeps 
The  sunshine  from  the  summer,  o'er  her  face 
Came  the  chill  shadow,  and  her  grief  was  done. 
Maidens,  whose  kindling  blushes  softly  burn 
Through  nut-brown  locks,  or  golden,  garlanded. 
Bright  for  the  bridal,  take  with  gentlest  hands, 
Out  of  your  Eden,  any  simple  flowers. 
And  cover  her  pale  corse  from  cruel  scorn, 
Who,  claiming  in  your  joy  no  sisterhood. 
Took  in  her  arms  the  darkness  which  is  peace ; 
And  that  the  bright-winged  ministers  of  God 
Shall,  when  she  wakes  in  beauty  out  of  dust, 
Make  kindly  restoration,  pray  sometimes. 

And  when  that  she  was  dead  and  in  her  grave, 
A  blaming  and  a  mourning  melancholy. 
Sweetly  commending  all  her  buried  grace. 
Darkened  the  pleasant  chambers  of  the  king, 
Till  in  the  ceremony  of  his  prayers. 
Often  he  stopt,  for  "  amen  "  crying  out, 


THE  MAIDEN  OF   TLA  SC  A  LA.  345 

•'  Oh,  Tiaara !  best,  gentlest  Tlaiira !  " 

Yet  pain  had  still  vicissitudes  of  peace. 

Until  Remorse,  with  lean  and  famished  lips. 

Hung  sucking  at  his  heart ;  then  came  Despair, 

And,  from  his  greatness  sorrowfully  bowed  — 

Like  to  the  feathered  serpent,*  that  of  old 

Went  writhing  down  the  blue  air,  weak  and  bruised, 

To  hide  beneath  the  sea  the  emerald  rings 

Erewhile  uncoiled  along  the  level  heavens  — 

Went  he  from  splendor  to  the  deeps  of  woe. 

No  white  dove,  rustling  back  the  darkness,  came, 

Raining  out  lovely  music  from  its  wings 

Upon  his  troubled  soul,  as  once  there  came 

To  Colhua's  mountain  children;  he  was  changed  — 

Not  in  his  princely  presence ;  not  like  him. 

Who,  fasting  in  the  mount  of  penitence. 

Fell  in  temptation,  and  was  so  transformed 

To  a  black  scorpion ;  but  his  youth  of  heart 

Dropt  off,  as  from  the  girdled  sapling  drops 

The  unripe  fruitage ;  hope  was  done  with  him. 

With  calm,  deliberative  eyes,  he  looked 

Upon  the  kingdoms,  parceled  at  his  will; 

Over  his  harvests  saw  the  sun  go  down. 

As  though  his  rising  on  the  morrow  brought 

The  issue  of  a  battle ;  as  one  lost, 

Who,  by  the  tracks  of  beasts  w^ould  find  his  way 

To  human  habitations,  so  he  strayed 

Farther  and  farther  from  the  rest  he  sought. 

From  the  sweet  altar  where  the  lamp  of  love 

Burned  through  the  temple's  twilight,  his  sad  steps 

Thenceforward  turned  aside,  and  entered  in 

That  dreadful  fane,  reared  sacredly  to  him 

Of  the  four  arrows  and  blue  twisted  club. 

Whose  waist  is  girdled  with  a  golden  snake, 

While  round  his  neck  a  collar  of  human  hearts 

Hangs  in  dread  token  of  his  murderous  trade. 

The  green-robed  goddess  of  the  fiery  wand 

That  on  the  manta's  fleeces  rides  at  night 

Across  the  sea-waves,  beckoned  him  sometimes, 

And  he  would  fain  have  gone,  but  that  a  hand 

Like  that  which  she  of  Katelolco  held 

Back  from  the  river  of  Death  what  time  she  heard 

*  Quetzalcoatl,  the  god  of  air. 


346  POEMS  BY  ALICE   GARY. 

The  dead  bones  making  prophecies  of  war, 

Still  held  him  among  mortals ;  but  he  saw, 

Lovely  as  life  and  habited  in  snow 

No  youth  upon  whose  forehead  shone  the  cross, 

Such  as  to  that  pale  sleeper  gave  the  power 

To  lift  the  cold  stone  of  her  sepulchre 

And  bear  her  mournful  warning  to  the  world. 

For  his  soul's  peace  he  built  a  rocky  bower 

And  dwelt  in  banishment  perpetual ; 

Wronging  his  marriage-bed,  for  solitude, 

Uncomforting  and  barren.     When  the  morn, 

Planting  carnations  in  the  hilly  east, 

Peeped  smiling  o'er  the  shoulder  of  the  day, 

He  set  his  joined  hands  before  his  eyes, 

Sighing  as  one  who  sees,  or  thinks  he  sees, 

The  likeness  of  a  friend,  untimely  dead. 

Nightly  he  watched  the  great  unstable  sea 

Kneel  on  the  brown  bare  sand  and  lay  his  face 

In  the  green  lap  of  Earth  —  his  paramour  — 

And  sobbing,  kiss  her  to  forgiving  terms. 

Then  straightway,  cruel  and  incontinent, 

Go  from  her  —  tracking  after  the  white  moon ; 

Music  constrained  its  sweetest  melodies 

To  please  his  lonesome  listening  —  all  in  vain; 

Beauty  grew  hateful,  and  the  voice  of  love, 

Shrill  as  the  sullen  bickering  of  the  storm. 

Close-neighboring  his  rocky  prison-house. 

Under  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  a  tower. 

Bright  with  all  fragrant  woods  and  shining  stones, 

Dwelt  priests,  in  the  dim  incense,  whose  clay  pipes 

And  rosy  jangling  shells,  mixing  with  hymns. 

Told  to  their  melancholy  king  what  times 

To  give  his  homage  to  the  Invisible. 

But  from  the  darkening  wake  of  his  lost  love, 

The  wild  and  desolate  echoes  evermore 

Went  crying  to  the  pitying  arms  of  God ; 

And  the  crushed  strings  of  his  complaining  lyre 

Under  the  kissing  hands  of  poesy 

Thrilled  never  with  such  sweetness,  as  erewhile. 

Beneath  the  bloomy  boughs  of  Tlascala. 


PHCEBE   GARY 


PHCEBE   GARY 


POEMS  BY  PHCEBE  GARY. 


3i*iO<^ 


A   STORY. 

While  silently  our  vessel  glides, 

To-night,  along  the  Adrian  seas, 
And  while  the  lightly-heaving  tides 

Are  scarcely  rippled  by  the  breeze  — 
Thon,  who,  with  cheek  of  beauty  pale, 

Seem'st  o'er  some  hidden  grief  to  pine, 
If  thou  wilt  listen  to  a  tale 

Of  sorrow,  it  may  lighten  thine. 
'T  was  told  me,  sadly  choked  with  tears ; 

My  eyes,  it  may  be,  too,  were  wet ; 
For,  through  the  shadowy  lapse  of  years. 

My  memory  keeps  the  record  yet. 
And  he  who  told  it  long  ago, 

Though  scarcely  passed  his  manhood's  prime, 
He  seemed  as  one  whose  heart  with  woe 

Was  seared  and  blighted  ere  its  time. 
And  as  he  told  his  story  o'er. 

Long  vanished  years  came  back  to  me ; 
For  he  had  crossed  my  path  before, 

Upon  the  land  and  on  the  sea. 

When  first  by  chance  I  saw  his  form, 

'T  was  on  the  raging  waves  at  night. 
And  if  at  all  he  saw  the  storm, 

He  recked  not  of  its  angry  might. 
For  while  the  dark  and  troubled  skies 

Rung  with  accents  of  despair. 
He  never  raised  his  tearful  eyes, 

Nor  lifted  up  his  voice  in  prayer. 
Once,  thirsting  for  the  cooling  well. 

Beneath  a  fierce  and  burning  sun, 
349 


350  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

And  listening  to  the  camel's  bell, 

That  music  of  the  desert  lone, 
We  reached  a  spot  whose  fountain  made 

An  Eden  in  that  barren  land ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  palm-tree's  shade, 

We  saw  the  lonely  stranger  stand. 
And  once,  when  twilight  closed  the  flowers, 

I  marked  him  on  dark  Jura's  steep. 
And  twice  amid  thy  sacred  bowers, 

Gethsemane,  I  saw  him  weep. 

But  when  I  saw  the  mourner  last. 

And  heard  the  story  of  his  woes, 
'T  was  where  the  solemn  cypress  cast 

Its  shadow  o'er  man's  last  repose. 
The  sun  had  faded  from  the  sky. 

With  all  his  bright  and  glowing  bars, 
And  solemn  clouds  were  gliding  by, 

In  spectral  silence  o'er  the  stars. 
And  there,  beside  a  grassy  mound. 

In  agony  for  words  too  deep. 
And  eyes  bent  sadly  on  the  ground, 

I  saw  him  clasp  his  hands  and  weep. 
Though  I  had  seen  him  on  the  sea 

Unmoved,  when  all  beside  were  pale, 
And  weeping  in  Gethsemane, 

I  never  asked  nor  knew  his  tale. 
But  now,  beside  the  tomb,  at  last. 

By  kindly  looks  and  words,  I  sought 
To  learn  the  story  of  the  past. 

And  win  him  from  his  troubled  thought. 
With  lips  all  breathlessly  apart. 

He  listened  to  each  soothing  word ; 
The  chord  was  touched  within  his  heart,  — 

The  long  untroubled  fount  was  stirred. 

"  Companioned  only  by  the  dead. 
So  many  years  I  've  lived  alone, 

I  hardly  thought,"  he  sadly  said, 
"  To  hear  again  a  pitying  tone. 

But,  stranger,  friend,  thy  words  are  kind. 
And  since  thou  fain  wouldst  learn  my  grief;, 

It  may  be  that  my  heart  will  find, 


A    STORY.  351 

In  utterance  of  its  woes,  relief. 
Life's  brightest  scenes  will  I  recall, 

And  those  where  shade  and  sunshine  blend, 
And,  if  my  lips  can  speak  it  all, 

I  '11  tell  it  even  to  the  end. 
My  childhood !  it  were  more  than  vain 

To  tell  thee  that  was  glad  as  fleet ; 
While  innocence  and  youth  remain, 

Thou  knowest  that  life's  cup  is  sweet. 

^'  But  when  the  soul  of  manhood  beamed, 

In  after  years,  upon  my  brow,  — 
(I  know  how  darkly  it  is  seamed 

With  scars  of  guilt  and  sorrow  now),  — 
When,  with  the  summer  stars  above, 

And  dew-drops  shining  in  the  vale, 
I  told  the  story  of  my  love 

To  one  who  did  not  scorn  the  tale ; 
And  when,  in  happiness  and  pride, 

Such  as  I  never  knew  before, 
I  bore  her  to  my  home  a  bride. 

The  measure  of  my  bliss  ran  o'er. 
Oh,  in  that  bower  of  Eden  blest, 

I  fain  would  linger  with  my  song ; 
It  irks  me  so  to  tell  the  rest  — 

The  serpent  did  not  spare  it  long. 

"  It  was  the  eve  of  such  a  day 

As  on  creation  dawned  of  old. 
And  all  along  the  heavenly  way 

The  stars  had  set  their  lamps  of  gold. 
That  night  I  stood  amid  the  throng 

Where  banquet  flowers  were  sweetly  strown, 
Where  wine  was  poured  with  mirth  and  song, 

And  where  the  smile  of  beauty  shone. 
When  lost  in  pleasure's  maze,  and  when 

My  heart  to  reason's  voice  was  steeled, 
I  tasted  of  the  w^ixe-cup,  then  — 

I  tasted,  and  my  doom  was  sealed ! 
That  night  the  moments  passed  more  fleet 

Than  with  my  bride  upon  the  hills ; 
That  night  I  drank  a  draught  more  sweet 

Than  water  from  the  living  rills. 


352  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

It  is  a  harder  task  to  win 

Tlie  feet,  at  lirst,  from  right  astray ; 
Yet  if  but  once  we  yield  to  sin, 

How  easy  is  the  downward  way! 
Oh,  if  the  spirit  can  be  won 

In  evil  ways  to  enter  in, 
That  first  false  step  may  lead  us  on 

Through  all  the  labyrinths  of  sin : 
And  I  resisted  not  the  power 

That  drew  me  first  towards  the  bowl, 
While  firmer  every  day  and  hour 

The  chains  were  fastened  in  my  soul. 
I  saw  hope's  sunny  fountain  fail 

In  her  young  heart  who  loved  me  so, 
As  day  by  day,  her  cheek  grew  pale 

With  vigils  and  with  tears  of  woe. 

"  Oh,  if  a  kind  and  pitying  word. 

If  tones  so  sweet  as  thine  have  been, 
My  erring  spirit  could  have  heard. 

They  might  have  saved  me,  even  then. 
But  no ;  they  named  with  scorn  my  name. 

And  viewed  me  with  reproachful  eyes ; 
For  all  who  saw  my  guilt  and  shame 

But  looked  upon  me  to  despise. 
And  so  I  left  my  home  and  hearth. 

For  haunts  of  wickedness  and  sin. 
And  sought,  in  wine  and  stronger  mirth. 

To  hush  the  voice  of  God  within. 
I  have  no  record  in  my  heart 

Of  how  my  days  and  weeks  went  by, 
Save  shadowy  images  that  start 

Like  spectres  still  before  mine  eye. 
As  something  indistinct  and  dim 

Of  sable  hearse  and  funeral  pall. 
Of  trailing  robes  and  mournful  hymn. 

My  memory  keeps  —  and  that  is  all ! 
But  when,  as  from  a  horrid  dream, 

I  woke,  disturbed  by  nameless  fears, 
I  sought  beside  the  mountain  stream 

My  home  so  dear  in  earlier  years. 
'T  was  desolate  —  I  called  my  bride, 

And  listened,  but  no  answer  came ; 


A    STORY.  353 

I  made  the  hills  and  valleys  wide 

Re-echo  vainly  with  her  name ! 
And  when  I  heard  a  step  draw  near, 

And  met  a  stranger's  wondering  gaze, 
I  asked,  in  tones  of  doubt  and.  fear, 

For  that  sweet  friend  of  earlier  days 
And  then  I  followed  where  he  led  ; 

And  as  he  left  that  singing  stream, 
I  glided  near  him  with  a  tread. 

Like  guilty  spirits  in  a  dream : 
He  brought  me  to  this  quiet  ground, 

The  last  repose  of  woe  and  care. 
And,  pointing  to  that  grassy  mound ; 

He  told  me  that  my  bride  was  there  ! 

"I've  been,  for  hopeless  years  since  then, 

A  wanderer  on  the  land  and  sea. 
And  little  loved  the  homes  of  men, 

Or  in  their  busy  haunts  to  be  ; 
And  should  not  now  have  turned  to  tread 

This  darkest  scene  of  all  my  woes. 
But  something  in  my  heart  has  said 

My  life  is  hastening  to  its  close. 
And  now  I  have  no  wish  below, 

And  no  request  for  man  to  keep. 
If  thou,  who  know'st  my  tale  of  woe. 

Wilt  lay  me  by  my  bride  to  sleep." 

He  paused,  and,  blinded  by  his  tears. 

Bowed  down  with  sorrow  dark  and  deep, 
The  hoarded  agony  of  years 

Broke  forth,  and  then  he  ceased  to  weep ; 
But  when  he  raised  his  eyes  again, 

I  saw,  what  was  unseen  till  now. 
That  death,  in  characters  too  plain, 

Was  written  on  that  pallid  brow. 

Three  little  days  ;  and  then  we  laid 
That  wreck  of  manhood  and  of  pride 

Beneath  the  gloomy  cypress  shade, 
To  slumber  with  his  stricken  bride. 


354  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 


THE   LOVERS. 

Thou  marvellest  why  so  oft  her  eyes 

Fill  with  the  heavy  dew  of  tears  — 
Have  I  not  told  thee  that  there  lies 

A  shadow  darkly  on  her  years  ? 
Life  was  to  her  one  sunny  whole, 

Made  up  of  visions  fancy  wove, 
Till  that  the  waters  of  her  soul 

Were  troubled  by  the  touch  of  love. 
I  knew  when  first  the  sudden  pause 

Upon  her  spirit's  sunshine  fell : 
Alas  !  I  little  guessed  the  cause, 

'T  was  hidden  in  her  heart  so  well. 
Our  lives  since  early  infancy 

Had  flowed  as  rills  together  flow. 
And  now  to  hide  her  thought  from  me 

Was  bitterer  than  to  tell  its  woe. 

One  night,  when  clouds  with  anguish  black 

A  tempest  in  her  bosom  woke, 
She  crushed  the  bitter  tear-drops  back, 

And  told  me  that  her  heart  was  broke ! 
I  learned  it  when  the  autumn  hours 

With  wailing  winds  around  us  sighed  — 
'T  was  summer  when  her  love's  young  flowers 

Burst  into  glorious  life  and  died  : 
No  —  now  I  can  remember  well, 

'T  was  the  soft  month  of  sun  and  shower ; 
A  thousand  times  I  've  heard  her  tell 

The  season,  and  the  very  hour : 
For  now,  whene'er  the  tear-drops  start, 

As  if  to  ease  its  throbbing  pain, 
She  leans  her  head  upon  my  heart 

And  tells  the  very  tale  again. 

'T  is  something  of  a  moon,  that  beamed 
Upon  her  weak  and  trembling  form. 

And  one  beside,  on  whom  she  leaned. 

That  scarce  had  stronger  heart  or  arm  — 

Of  souls  united  there  until 

Death  the  last  ties  of  life  shall  part. 


THE   LOVERS.  355 

And  a  fond  kiss  whose  rapturous  thrill 
Still  vibrates  softly  in  her  heart. 

It  is  an  era  strange,  yet  sweet, 

Which  every  woman's  thought  has  known, 
When  first  her  young  heart  learns  to  beat 

To  the  soft  music  of  a  tone ; 
That  era  when  she  first  begins 

To  know  what  love  alone  can  teach. 
That  there  are  hidden  depths  within 

Which  friendship  never  yet  could  reach : 
And  all  earth  has  of  bitter  woe 

Is  light  beside  her  hopeless  doom 
Who  sees  love's  first  sweet  star  below 

Fade  slowly  till  it  sets  in  gloom. 
There  may  be  heavier  grief  to  move 

The  heart  that  mourns  an  idol  dead, 
But  one  who  weeps  a  living  love 

Has  surely  little  left  to  dread. 

I  cannot  tell  why  love  so  true 

As  theirs  should  only  end  in  gloom ; 
Some  mystery  that  I  never  knew 

Was  woven  darkly  with  their  doom. 
I  only  know  their  dream  was  vain, 

And  that  they  woke  to  find  it  past. 
And  when  by  chance  they  met  again, 

It  was  not  as  they  parted  last. 
His  was  not  faith  that  lightly  dies, 

For  truth  and  love  as  clearly  shone 
In  the  blue  heaven  of  his  soft  eyes, 

As  the  dark  midnight  of  her  own: 
And  therefore  Heaven  alone  can  tell 

What  are  his  living  visions  now ; 
But  hers  —  the  eye  can  read  too  well 

The  language  written  on  her  brow. 

In  the  soft  twilight,  dim  and  sweet, 

Once  watching  by  the  lattice  pane. 
She  listened  for  his  coming  feet. 

For  whom  she  never  looked  in  vain  : 
Then  hope  shone  brightly  on  her  brow, 

That  had  not  learned  its  after  fears  — 


356  POEMS  BY  PHOEBE    GARY. 

Alas !  she  cannot  sit  there  now, 

But  that  her  dark  eyes  fill  with  tears ! 
And  every  woodland  pathway  dim, 

And  bower  of  roses  cool  and  sweet, 
That  speak  of  vanished  days  and  him, 

Are  spots  forbidden  to  her  feet. 
No  thought  within  her  bosom  stirs, 

But  wakes  some  feeling  dark  and  dread 
God  keep  thee  from  a  doom  like  hers  — 

Of  living  when  the  hopes  are  dead ! 


OUE   HOMESTEAD.* 

Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls, 

From  the  way-side  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple-boughs  could  almost  cast 

Their  fruitage  on  its  roof : 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew, 

That  when  awake  I  Ve  lain, 
In  the  lonesome  nights,  I  've  heard  the  limbs, 

As  they  creaked  against  the  pane : 
And  those  orchard  trees,  0  those  orchard  trees  I 

I  've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier  under  the  window-sill, 

AVhich  the  early  birds  made  glad. 
And  the  damask  rose  by  the  garden  fence, 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I  've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then. 

Exotics  rich  and  rare. 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier, 

But  not  to  me  so  fair ; 
0  those  roses  bright,  0  those  roses  bright ! 
I  have  twined  them  in  my  sister's  locks. 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight ! 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well, 
Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 

*  Reprinted  in  "  Poems  and  Parodies." 


THE  FOLLOWERS   OF   CHRIST.  357 

And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the  mossy  stones 

Were  falling  constantly : 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  that  in  my  little  cup, 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude  old  sweep, 
Which  my  father's  hand  set  up ; 
And  that  deep  old  well,  0  that  deep  old  well ! 

I  remember  yet  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 

Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet ; 
There  my  mother's  voice  was  always  kind, 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet ; 
And  there  I  've  sat  on  my  father's  knee. 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With  my  childish  hand  in  his  raven  hair,  — 

That  hair  is  silver  now ! 
But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  0  that  broad  hearth's 

light ! 
And  my  father's  look,  and  my  mother's  smile,  — 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night. 


THE   FOLLOWERS   OF   CHRIST. 

W^HAT  were  thy  teachings  ?     Thou  who  hadst  not  where 

In  all  this  weary  earth  to  lay  thy  head ; 
Thou  who  wert  made  the  sins  of  men  to  bear, 

And  break  with  publicans  thy  daily  bread ! 
Tarning  from  Nazareth,  the  despised,  aside. 

And  dwelling  in  the  cities  by  the  sea. 
What  were  thy  words  to  those  who  sat  and  dried 

Their  nets  upon  the  rocks  of  Galilee  ? 

Didst  thou  not  teach  thy  followers  here  below, 
Patience,  long-suffering,  charity,  and  love; 

To  be  forgiving,  and  to  anger  slow, 

And  perfect,  like  our  blessed  Lord  above  ? 

And  who  were  they,  the  called  and  chosen  then. 
Through  all  the  world,  teaching  thy  truth,  to  go  ? 


358  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Were  they  the  rulers,  and  the  chiefest  men, 
The  teachers  in  the  synagogue?     Not  so! 
Makers  of  tents,  and  fishers  by  the  sea, 
These  only  left  their  all  to  follow  thee. 

And  even  of  the  twelve  whom  thou  didst  name 

Apostles  of  thy  holy  word  to  be, 
One  was  a  devil ;  and  the  one  who  came 

With  loudest  boasts  of  faith  and  constancy, 
He  was  the  first  thy  warning  who  forgot, 

And  said,  with  curses,  that  he  knew  thee  not ! 
Yet  were  there  some  who  in  thy  sorrows  were 

To  thee  even  as  a  brother  and  a  friend, 
And  women,  seeking  out  the  sepulchre. 

Were  true  and  faithful  even  to  the  end : 
And  some  there  were  who  kept  the  living  faith 
Through  persecution  even  unto  death. 

But,  Saviour,  since  that  dark  and  awful  day 

When  the  dread  temple's  veil  was  rent  in  twain, 
And  while  the  noontide  brightness  fled  away, 

The  gaping  earth  gave  up  her  dead  again ; 
Tracing  the  many  generations  down. 

Who  have  professed  to  love  thy  holy  ways. 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  the  world's  renown. 

And  through  the  terrors  of  her  darker  days  — 
Where  are  thy  followers,  and  what  deeds  of  love 
Their  deep  devotion  to  thy  precepts  prove  ? 

Turn  to  the  time  when  o'er  the  green  hills  came 

Peter  the  Hermit  from  the  cloister's  gloom, 
Telling  his  followers  in  the  Saviour's  name 

To  arm  and  battle  for  the  sacred  tomb; 
Not  with  the  Christian  armor  —  perfect  faith, 

And  love  which  purifies  the  soul  from  dross  — 
But  holding  in  one  hand  the  sword  of  death, 

And  in  the  other  lifting  up  the  cross. 
He  roused  the  sleeping  nations  up  to  feel 
All  the  blind  ardor  of  unholy  zeal ! 

With  the  bright  banner  of  the  cross  unfurled. 

And  chanting  sacred  hymns,  they  marched,  and  yet 


THE  FOLLOWERS   OF  CHRIST.  359 

They  made  a  pandemonium  of  the  world, 

More  dark  than  that  where  fallen  angels  met : 

The  singing  of  their  bugles  could  not  drown 

The  bitter  curses  of  the  hunted  down  ! 

Richard,  the  lion-hearted,  brave  in  war, 

Tancred,  and  Godfrey,  of  the  fearless  band. 

Though  earthly  fame  had  spread  their  names  afar. 
What  were  they  but  the  scourges  of  the  land  ? 

And  worse  than  these  were  men,  whose  touch  would  be 

Pollution,  vowed  to  lives  of  sanctity ! 

And  in  thy  name  did  men  in  other  days 

Construct  the  Inquisition's  gloomy  cell, 
And  kindle  persecution  to  a  blaze, 

Likest  of  all  things  to  the  fires  of  hell ! 
Kidley  and  Latimer  —  I  hear  their  song 

In  calling  up  each  martyr's  glorious  name. 
And  Cranmer,  with  the  praises  on  his  tongue 

When  his  red  hand  dropped  down  amid  the  flame ! 
Merciful  God !  and  have  these  things  been  done, 
And  in  the  name  of  thy  most  holy  Son  ? 

Turning  from  other  lands  grown  old  in  crime. 
To  this,  where  Freedom's  root  is  deeply  set, 
Surely  no  stain  upon  its  folds  sublime 
^  Dims  the  escutcheon  of  our  glory  yet  ? 

Hush !  came  there  no  sound  upon  the  air 

Like  captives  moaning  from  their  native  shore  — 
Woman's  deep  wail  of  passionate  despair 

For  home  and  kindred  seen  on  earth  no  more ! 
Yes,  standing  in  the  market-place,  I  see 

Our  weaker  brethren  coldly  bought  and  sold. 
To  be  in  hopeless,  dull  captivity, 

Driven  forth  to  toil  like  cattle  from  the  fold. 
And  hark  !  the  lash,  and  the  despairing  cry 
Of  the  strong  man  in  perilous  agony ! 

And  near  me  I  can  hear  the  heavy  sound 
Of  the  dull  hammer  borne  upon  the  air: 

Is  a  new  city  rising  from  the  ground  ? 
What  hath  the  artisan  constructed  there  ? 


360  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

'T  is  not  a  palace,  nor  an  humble  shed ; 

'T  is  not  a  holy  temple  reared  by  hands : 
No!  —  lifting  up  its  dark  and  bloody  head 

Eight  in  the  face  of  Heaven,  the  scaffold  stands ; 
And  men,  regardless  of  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill," 

That  plainest  lesson  in  the  Book  of  Light, 
Even  from  the  very  altars  tell  us  still 

That  evil  sanctioned  by  the  law  is  right ! 
And  preach  in  tones  of  eloquence  sublime, 
To  teach  mankind  that  murder  is  not  crime  I 

And  is  there  nothing  to  redeem  mankind  ? 

No  heart  that  keeps  the  love  of  God  within  ? 
Is  the  whole  world  degraded,  weak,  and  blind, 

And  darkened  by  the  leprous  scales  of  sin  ? 
No,  we  will  hope  that  some  in  meekness  sweet, 
Still  sit,  with  trusting  Mary,  at  thy  feet. 

For  there  are  men  of  God,  who  faithful  stand 

On  the  far  ramparts  of  our  Zion's  wall, 
Planting  the  cross  of  Jesus  in  some  land 

That  never  listened  to  salvation's  call. 
J^nd  there  are  some,  led  by  philanthropy, 

Men  of  the  feeling  heart  and  daring  mind, 
Who  fain  would  set  the  hopeless  captive  free. 

And  raise  the  weak  and  fallen  of  mankind. 
And  there  are  many  in  life's  humblest  way, 

Who  tread  like  angels  on  a  path  of  light, 
Who  warn  the  sinful  when  they  go  astray. 

And  point  the  erring  to  the  way  of  right ; 
And  the  meek  beauty  of  such  lives  will  teach 
More  than  the  eloquence  of  man  can  preach. 

And,  blessed  Saviour  !  by  thy  life  of  trial. 
And  by  thy  death,  to  free  the  world  from  sin, 

And  by  the  hope  that  man,  though  weak  and  vile, 
Hath  something  of  divinity  within  — 

Still  will  we  trust,  though  sin  and  crime  be  met, 

To  see  thy  holy  precepts  triumph  yet ! 


SONNETS.  361 


SONNETS. 

I. 

Down  in  the  cold  and  noiseless  wave  of  death, 

Oh,  pure  and  beautiful  lost  one  that  thou  art, 
Clasping  the  anchor  of  eternal  faith 

Closer  and  closer  to  thy  trusting  heart  — 
Didst  thou  fade  from  us,  while  our  tearful  eyes, 

Here  on  the  shore  of  sad  mortality, 
Gazed  sorrowing  on  that  form  that  ne'er  shall  rise 

Till  sounds  the  music  of  eternity. 
Then  shalt  thou  take  the  Saviour's  hand  in  thine, 

Not  with  his  faith  who  held  it  falteringly. 
But  in  the  trustfulness  of  love  divine, 

And  with  him  walk  the  waters  of  the  sea; 
Till,  casting  anchor,  all  thy  toils  shall  cease 
In  the  still  haven  of  eternal  peace. 


II. 

The  beautiful  measure  of  thy  trusting  love 

Survives  the  answering  faith  it  knew  of  old ; 
Over  the  heart  thy  pleadings  cannot  move. 

Slowly  but  sure  the  closing  wave  hath  rolled : 
The  unpitying  eyes  thou  meet'st  burn  not  more  bright, 

Though  now  thy  lips  with  eloquent  fervor  speak, 
And  all  thy  passionate  kisses  may  not  light 

The  crimson  fires  in  the  unchanging  cheek. 
How  shall  I  give  thee  solace  ?     Had  she  died. 

With  love's  sweet  sunlight  shining  in  her  eyes, 
Then  might'st  thou,  casting  selfish  grief  aside, 

Patiently  wait  reunion  in  the  skies : 
For  better  than  the  living  faith  estranged. 
The  love  that  goes  down  to  the  dead  unchanged. 


III. 

Look  once  again !  yet  mourn  in  holy  trust. 
Near  the  still  Presence  softly,  softly  tread. 

Before  the  dimness  of  the  closing  dust 
Soils  the  yet  lingering  beauty  of  the  dead. 


362  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Look  on  the  silent  lip,  whence  oft  hath  flowed 

Such  living  truth  as  man  hath  seldom  taught, 
And  the  sereneness  of  that  brow  that  glowed 

Earnest  in  life  with  pure  and  eloquent  thought ! 
How  silver-white  has  grown  his  reverend  hair. 

Serving  his  Master  in  the  way  of  truth : 
For  him,  an  age  of  active  love  and  prayer 

Fulfilled  the  beautiful  promise  of  his  youth ; 
And  what  a  triumph  hour  is  death  to  those 
Faithful  in  life,  yet  happy  in  its  close ! 


IV. 

Let  me  not  feel  thy  pitying  fingers'  grasp. 

Though  dewy  cool  their  pressure  still  may  be, 
Since  they  have  learned  to  thrill  within  the  clasp 

Of  passionate  love  that  trembled  once  for  me ! 
Sweep  back  the  beautiful  tresses  from  thy  brow. 

Nor  let  them,  falling  o'er  me,  blend  with  mine : 
Dark  as  the  glorious  midnight  in  their  flow, — 

My  locks  are  paler  in  their  fall  than  thine ! 
In  thy  deep  eyes  are  lit  the  fires  divine. 

That  made  the  heart  its  early  love  forget ; 
So  much  they  mock  the  softer  light  of  mine 

I  cannot  calmly  meet  their  glances  yet ; 
Therefore,  until  this  bitterness  shall  cease. 
Leave  me,  that  I  may  win  my  heart  to  peace ! 


SYMPATHY. 


In  the  same  beaten  channel  still  have  run 
The  blessed  streams  of  human  sympathy ; 

And  though  I  know  this  ever  hath  been  done. 
The  why  and  wherefore  I  could  never  see : 

Why  some  such  sorrow  for  their  griefs  have  won. 
And  some,  unpitied,  bear  their  misery, 

Are  mysteries,  which  thinking  o'er  and  o'er 

Has  left  me  nothing  wiser  than  before. 

What  bitter  tears  of  agony  have  flowed 
O'er  the  sad  pages  of  some  old  romance ! 


SYMPATHY.  363 

How  Beauty's  cheek  beneath  those  drops  has  glowed, 
That  dimmed  the  sparkling  lustre  of  her  glance, 

And  on  some  love-sick  maiden  is  bestowed, 
Or  some  rejected,  hapless  knight,  perchance, 

All  her  deep  sympathies,  until  her  moans 
Stifle  the  nearer  sound  of  living  groans ! 

Oh,  the  deep  sorrow  for  their  suffering  felt, 

AVhere  is  found  something  "  better  days  "  to  prove  ! 

What  heart  above  their  downfall  will  not  melt. 
Who  in  a  "  higher  circle  "  once  could  move  ! 

For  such,  mankind  have  ever  freely  dealt 
Out  the  full  measure  of  their  pitying  love. 

Because  they  witnessed,  in  their  wretchedness. 

Their  friends  grow  fewer,  and  their  fortunes  less. 

But  for  some  humble  peasant  girl's  distress. 

Some  real  being  left  to  stem  the  tide. 
Who  saw  her  young  heart's  wealth  of  tenderness 

Betrayed,  and  trampled  on,  and  flung  aside  — 
Who  seeks  her  out,  to  make  her  sorrows  less  ? 

What  noble  lady  o'er  her  tale  hath  cried? 
Kone !  for  the  records  of  such  humble  grief 
Obtain  not  human  pity  —  scarce  belief. 

And  as  for  their  distress,  who  from  the  first 
Have  had  no  fortune  and  no  friends  to  fail  — 

Those  who  in  poverty  were  born  and  nursed  — 
For  such,  by  men,  are  placed  without  the  pale 

Of  sympathy  —  since  they  are  deemed  the  worst 
Who  are  the  humblest,  and  if  Want  assail 

And  bring  them  harder  toil,  't  is  only  said, 

"  They  have  been  used  to  labor  for  their  bread !  " 

Oh,  the  unknown,  unpitied  thousands  found 
Huddled  together,  hid  from  human  sight 

By  fell  disease  or  gnawing  famine,  bound 
To  some  dim,  crowded  garret,  day  and  night. 

Or  in  unwholesome  cellars  underground, 
With  scarce  a  breath  of  air,  or  ray  of  light ! 

Hunger,  and  rags,  and  labor  ill  repaid  — 

These  are  the  things  that  ask  our  tears  and  aid. 


364  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    GARY. 

And  these  ought  not  to  be ;  it  is  not  well 
Here  in  this  land  of  Christian  liberty, 

That  honest  worth  in  hopeless  want  should  dwell, 
Unaided  by  our  care  and  sympathy ; 

And  is  it  not  a  burning  shame  to  tell 

We  have  no  means  to  check  such  misery, 

When  wealth  from  out  our  treasury  freely  flows, 

To  wage  a  deadly  warfare  with  our  foes ! 

It  is  all  wrong ;  yet  men  begin  to  deem 

The  days  of  darkest  gloom  are  nearly  done ; 

A  something,  like  the  first  bright  golden  beam 
That  heralds  in  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 

Breaks  on  the  sight.     Oh,  if  it  be  no  dream, 
How  shall  we  haste  that  blessed  era  on ! 

For  there  is  need  that  on  men's  hearts  should  fall 

A  spirit  that  shall  sympathize  with  all. 


MEMORIES. 

"  She  loved  me,  but  she  left  me." 

Memories  on  memories !  to  my  soul  again 

There  come  such  dreams  of  vanished  love  and  bliss, 
That  my  wrung  heart,  though  long  inured  to  pain, 

Sinks  with  the  fulness  of  its  wretchedness. 
Thou  dearer  far  than  all  the  world  beside ! 

Thou  who  didst  listen  to  my  love's  first  vow  ! 
Once  I  had  fondly  hoped  to  call  thee  bride  — 

Is  the  dream  over  ?  comes  the  awakening  now  ? 
And  is  this  hour  of  wretchedness  and  tears 
The  only  guerdon  for  my  wasted  years  ? 

And  did  I  love  thee  ;  when  by  stealth  we  met 

In  the  sweet  evenings  of  that  summer-time, 
Whose  pleasant  memory  lingers  with  me  yet. 

As  the  remembrance  of  a  better  clime 
Might  haunt  a  fallen  angel.     And  oh  !  thou. 

Thou  who  didst  turn  away  and  seek  to  bind 
Thy  heart  from  breaking,  thou  hast  felt  ere  now 

A  heart  like  thine  o'ermastereth  the  mind  ; 


MORALIZINGS.  365 

Affection's  power  is  stronger  than  thy  will ; 

Ah  !  thou  didst  love  me,  and  thou  lovest  me  still. 

My  heart  could  never  yet  be  taught  to  move 

With  the  calm  even  pulses  that  it  should, 
Turning  away  from  those  that  it  should  love, 

And  loving  whom  it  should  not ;  it  hath  wooed 
Beauty  forbidden  —  I  may  not  forget  — 

And  thou,  oh  !  thou  canst  never  cease  to  feel ; 
But  time,  which  hath  not  changed  affection,  yet 

Hath  taught  at  least  one  lesson — to  conceal; 
So  none,  but  thou,  who  see  my  smiles  shall  know 
The  silent  bleeding  of  the  heart  below. 


MOKALIZi:^GS. 

Hark  to  the  triumph  for  a  victory  won, 

Shaking  the  solid  earth  whereon  we  stand ! 
What  noble  action  hath  the  Nation  done. 

That  thus  rejoicing  echoes  through  the  land  ? 
Hath  she  beheld  life's  inequality  — 

How,  still,  her  stronger  sons  the  weak  oppress. 
And,  in  the  spirit  of  philanthropy. 

Made  the  deep  sura  of  human  anguish  less  ? 
Or  hath  she  risen  up,  at  last,  to  free 
The  hopeless  slave  from  his  captivity  ? 

No,  not  for  these  the  shout  is  heard  to-night 

Waking  its  echoes  in  each  vale  and  glen. 
Not  that  the  precepts  of  the  Lord  of  Light 

Have  found  a  dwelling  in  the  hearts  of  men ; 
'T  is  that  a  battle  hath  been  fought  and  won. 

That  the  deep  cannon's  note  is  heard  afar. 
Telling  us  of  the  bloody  conflict  done. 

That  Victory  hovers  o'er  our  ranks  in  war. 
And  that  her  soldiery  their  triumph  sing 
In  the  broad  shadow  of  her  starry  wing. 

And  war  is  here  !     Impatient  for  the  fight, 
Our  Nation  in  her  majesty  arose, 


366  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

Even  as  the  restless  lion  in  his  might 

Up  from  the  swelling  of  the  Jordan  goes, 

And,  with  a  trampling  noise  that  shook  each  hill, 
On  to  the  conflict  madly  hath  she  rushed, 

Vowing  to  falter  not,  nor  yield,  until 

The  life  from  out  a  Nation's  heart  is  crushed ; 

Until  her  hapless  sons  are  made  to  feel 

The  bloody  vengeance  of  her  iron  heel ! 

And  what  will  be  our  gain,  though  we  return 

Proudly  victorious  from  each  battle  plain  ? 
A  weakened  Nation  will  be  left  to  mourn 

Her  bravest  heroes  in  the  conflict  slain ; 
Her  treasury  drained ;  our  broad  and  goodly  land 

Filled  with  the  orphan  and  the  widowed  wife ; 
A  soldiery  corrupted  to  disband, 

Unfit  for  useful  toil  or  virtuous  life ; 
And  a  long  train  of  evils  yet  to  be 
Darkly  entailed  upon  posterity  ! 

And  this  is  glory !     This  is  what  hath  been 

To  ages  back  the  proudest  theme  of  song. 
And,  dazzled  by  its  glare,  man  has  not  seen 

Beneath  its  pageantry  the  deadly  wrong. 
Deeming  it  fame  to  tread  where  heroes  trod. 

In  his  career  he  has  not  paused,  or  known 
That  all  are  children  of  the  self-same  God, 

And  that  our  brother's  interest  is  our  own  ; 
For  man  that  hardest  lesson  has  to  learn, 
Still  to  forgive,  and  good  for  ill  return. 

But  oh !  for  all  will  come  that  solemn  hour 

When  memory  calls  to  mind  each  deed  of  sin, 
And  the  world's  hollow  praise  can  have  no  power 

To  still  the  voice  of  conscious  guilt  within. 
And  grant,  0  Lord  of  Love,  that  it  may  be 

My  lot,  when  on  the  brink  of  death  I  press, 
To  think  of  some  slight  act  of  charity. 

Some  pang  of  human  wretchedness  made  less. 
So,  that  in  numbering  o'er  life's  deeds  again, 
I  then  may  deem  I  have  not  lived  in  vain  ! 


MORNING   THOUGHTS.  367 


DREAMING   OF   HEAVEN. 

I  SIT  where  the  shadows  of  twilight  steal  o'er  me, 

While  the  wildbirds  are  warbling  their  last  fitful  hymn, 

And  I  think  of  the  loved  who  have  entered  before  me 
That  dwelling  whose  glory  shall  never  grow  dim. 

Forever  the  land  of  the  spirits  seems  nearer, 

When  twilight  steals  over  the  earth's  quiet  breast, 

And  the  harps  of  the  angels  sound  sweeter  and  clearer, 
What  time  the  last  day-beams  go  out  in  the  west. 

Oh  !  if  all  my  dreams  were  as  bright  and  elysian 
As  those  which  the  eve  to  my  spirit  still  brings, 

I  could  sit  here  forever  to  woo  the  sweet  vision. 
And  dream  about  heaven  and  heavenly  things  ! 

For  I  long  to  be  up  where  the  seraphim  gather 
With  the  ransomed  of  Zion  whom  Jesus  has  blest. 

And  where,  in  the  smile  of  our  heavenly  Father, 
Our  purified  spirits  forever  shall  rest! 


MOENING   THOUGHTS. 

Crossing  the  east  with  gold  and  crimson  bars, 

Comes  the  imperial  King  of  day  and  light, 
And,  shaken  by  his  tread,  the  burning  stars 

Drop  from  the  regal  diadem  of  night. 
Surely  the  dawn  was  not  more  fair  than  this 

When  Eden's  roses  in  fresh  beauty  burst, 
And  morning,  blushing  at  her  loveliness. 

Looked  down  upon  the  young  creation  first : 
When  all  below  was  innocent,  and  when 
The  angels  walked  in  Paradise  with  man. 

How  equally  the  gifts  of  God  come  down 

To  all  the  creatures  which  his  hand  has  made ; 

The  beams  that  wake  the  children  of  renown. 
Fall  softly  on  the  peasant  in  the  glade. 

The  dawn  that  calls  the  eagle  up  to  fly 

From  her  proud  eyrie  to  the  mountain's  height, 


368  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

Visits  the  lowly  lark  as  smilingly, 

When  from  the  vale  she  takes  her  homeward  *  flight 
Morning  and  life  and  sunshine,  these  are  things 
That  are  not  meant  to  be  the  wealth  of  kings ! 

Freedom  at  least  from  homeless  poverty, 

A  soul  unbowed  by  fetters  or  by  pain, 
One  heart  whose  faith  has  still  been  true  to  me. 

These  things  are  mine,  and  why  should  I  complain  ? 
Complain  !  when  God  has  been  so  good  to  me. 

And  when  his  blessings  with  my  days  increase, 
Giving  for  every  day  of  misery 

A  recompense  of  tranquil  days  of  peace  : 
Even  as  the  morning  with  her  smiles  and  light 
Is  over-payment  for  the  weary  night. 


KESOLVES.t 

I  HAVE  said  I  would  not  meet  him  ; 

Have  I  said  the  words  in  vain  ? 
Sunset  burns  along  the  hill-tops, 

And  I  'm  waiting  here  again. 
But  my  promise  is  not  broken, 

Though  I  stand  where  once  we  met ; 
"When  I  hear  his  coming  footsteps, 

I  can  fly  him  even  yet. 

We  have  stood  here  oft,  when  evening 

Deepened  slowly  o'er  the  plain ; 
But  I  must  not,  dare  not,  meet  him 

In  the  shadows  here  again  ; 
For  I  could  not  turn  away  and  leave 

That  pleading  look  and  tone. 
And  the  sorrow  of  his  parting 

Would  be  bitter  as  my  own. 

In  the  dim  and  distant  ether 

The  first  star  is  shining  through. 

And  another  and  another 
Tremble  softly  in  the  blue ; 

♦Corrected  to  "  heavenward  "  in  Boston  Public  Library  copy, 
t  Eeprinted  in  "  Poems  and  Parodies." 


THE  MARINER'S   BRIDE.  369 

Should  I  linger  but  one  moment 

In  the  shadows  where  I  stand, 
I  shall  see  tlie  vine-leaves  parted, 

With  a  quick,  impatient  hand. 

But  I  will  not  wait  his  coming ! 

He  will  surely  come  once  more  ; 
Though  I  said  I  would  not  meet  him, 

I  have  told  him  so  before; 
And  he  knows  the  stars  of  evening 

See  me  standing  here  again,  — 
O,  he  surely  will  not  leave  me 

Now  to  watch  and  wait  in  vain ! 

'Tis  the  hour,  the  time  of  meeting! 

In  one  moment  't  will  be  past ; 
And  last  night  he  stood  beside  me,  — 

AVas  that  blessed  time  the  last  ? 
I  could  better  bear  my  sorrow. 

Could  I  live  that  parting  o'er ; 
O,  I  wish  I  had  not  told  him 

That  I  would  not  come  once  more ! 

Could  that  have  been  the  night-wind 

Moved  the  branches  thus  apart  ? 
Did  I  hear  a  coming  footstep. 

Or  the  beating  of  my  heart  ? 
No !  I  hear  him,  I  can  see  him. 

And  my  meek  resolves  are  vain; 
I  will  fly,  —  but  to  his  bosom, 

And  to  leave  it  not  again  ! 


THE   MAEINER'S   BRIDE. 

O'er  the  dark  waters  now  my  bounding  bark 
May  bear  me  onward  wheresoe'er  it  will : 

I  care  not  though  the  angry  sky  be  dark, 
Light  of  my  being !  thou  art  with  me  still. 

Yes,  let  the  heaving  billows  lash  the  deck, 
And  the  red  lightning  tremble  on  the  seaj 


370  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

So  that  thy  faithful  arms  are  round  my  neck, 

My  heart  will  never  tremble  ;  —  for  with  thee 
I  know  my  soul  within  would  still  be  brave 
If  every  gaping  billow  showed  a  grave. 

Once  I  had  feared  the  raging  of  the  sea, 

When  the  wild  tempest  in  its  fury  burst ;    . 
But,  bride  of  beauty  !  standing  thus  with  thee, 

The  angry  elements  may  do  their  worst. 
And  should  our  vessel  founder  on  a  rock. 

Or  cast  us  on  some  desert  shore  to  die, 
Unshrinkingly  my  soul  will  meet  the  shock, 

If  thou  with  that  inspiring  brow  art  nigh : 
For,  folding  thee,  my  gentle  bride,  to  sleep, 

Closer,  and  closer,  to  this  fainting  breast, 
We  should  go  down  as  calmly  to  the  deep 
As  a  young  infant  to  its  cradle-rest. 
And  though  the  water-wraith  should  stir  the  sea, 

And  the  wild  tempest  move  the  waves  above. 
Securely  peaceful  would  my  slumber  be 

With  thee,  my  stricken  bride  of  youth  and  love ; 
For  thou  wouldst  cheer  the  darkness  of  the  grave, 
As  the  bright  sea-star  lights  the  ocean  cave ! 


THE  PRISONER'S  LAST  NIGHT. 

The  last  red  gold  had  melted  from  the  sky. 

Where  the  sweet  sunset  lingered  soft  and  warm, 

A  starry  night  was  gathering  silently 

The  jewelled  mantle  round  her  regal  form; 

While  the  invisible  fingers  of  the  breeze 

Shook  the  young  blossoms  lightly  from  the  trees. 

Yet  were  there  breaking  hearts  beneath  the  stars. 
Though  the  hushed  earth  lay  smiling  in  the  light, 

And  the  dull  fetters  and  the  prison  bars 
Saw  bitter  tears  of  agony  that  night. 

And  heard  such  burning  words  of  love  and  truth 

As  wring  the  life-drops  from  the  heart  of  youth. 


SONG  OF   THE  HEART.  371 

For  he,  whom  men  relentless  doomed  to  die, 
Parted  with  one  who  loved  him  till  the  last ; 

With  many  a  vow  of  faith  and  constancy 

The  long,  long  watches  of  the  night  were  passed ; 

Till,  heavily  and  slow,  the  prison  door 

Swung  back,  and  told  them  that  their  hour  was  o'er. 

'T  was  his  last  night  on  earth !  and  God  alone 
Can  tell  the  anguish  of  that  stricken  one, 

Fettered  in  darkness  to  the  dungeon  stone. 
And  doomed  to  perish  with  the  rising  sun ; 

And  she,  whose  faith  through  all  was  vainly  true, 

Her  heart  was  broken  —  and  she  perished  too  ! 

And  will  this  win  an  erring  brother  back 

To  the  sweet  paths  of  pleasantness  and  peace  ? 

"  While  crimes  are  punished  but  by  crime  more  black," 
Will  sin,  and  wickedness,  and  sorrow  cease  ? 

No !  crime  will  never  cease  to  scourge  the  land. 

So  long  as  blood  is  on  her  ruler's  hand ! 

And  oh !  how  long  will  hearts  in  sin  and  pride 
Reject  His  blessed  precepts,  who  of  yore 

Taught  men  forgiveness  on  the  mountain  side, 
And  spoke  of  love  and  mercy  by  the  shore  ? 

How  long  will  power,  with  such  despotic  sway. 

Trample  unfriended  weakness  in  its  way  ? 

Hasten,  0  Lord  of  Light,  that  glorious  time. 

When  man  no  more  shall  spurn  thy  wise  command. 

Filling  the  earth  with  wretchedness  and  crime. 
And  making  guilt  a  plague-spot  on  the  land ; 

Hasten  the  time,  that  blood  no  more  shall  cry 

Unceasingly  for  vengeance  to  the  sky ! 


SONG   OF   THE   HEART. 

They  may  tell  forever  of  worlds  of  bloom 
Beyond  the  skies  and  beyond  the  tomb ; 
Of  the  sweet  repose,  and  the  rapture  there. 
That  are  not  found  in  a  world  of  care ; 


372  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

But  not  to  me  can  the  present  seem 
Like  a  foolish  tale  or  an  idle  dream. 

Oh,  I  know  that  the  bowers  of  heaven  are  fair, 
And  I  know  that  the  waters  of  life  are  there ; 
But  I  do  not  long  for  their  happy  flow, 
While  there  bursts  such  fountains  of  bliss  below 
And  I  would  not  leave,  for  the  rest  above, 
The  faithful  bosom  of  trusting  love ! 

There  are  angels  here ;  they  are  seen  the  while 
In  each  love-lit  brow  and  each  gentle  smile ; 
There  are  seraph  voices,  that  meet  the  ear 
In  a  kindly  tone  and  the  word  of  cheer ; 
And  light,  such  light  as  they  have  above. 
Beams  on  us  here,  from  the  eyes  of  love. 

Yet,  when  it  cometh  my  time  to  die, 
I  would  turn  from  this  wild  world  willingly; 
Though,  even  then,  would  the  thoughts  of  this 
Tinge  every  dream  of  that  land  of  bliss ; 
And  I  fain  would  lean  on  the  loved  for  aid. 
Nor  walk  alone  through  the  vale  and  shade. 

And  if  't  is  mine,  till  life's  changes  end. 
To  keep  the  heart  of  one  faithful  friend, 
Whatever  the  trials  of  earth  may  be,  — 
On  the  peaceful  shore,  or  the  restless  sea. 
In  a  palace  home,  or  the  wilderness, — 
There  is  heaven  for  me  in  a  world  like  this ! 


MAN   BELIEVES   THE   STKONG. 

Oh  !  in  this  world,  where  all  is  fair  and  bright, 
Save  human  wickedness  and  human  pride. 

Marring  what  else  were  lovely  to  the  sight. 
It  is  a  truth  that  may  not  be  denied. 

However  deeply  we  deplore  the  wrong, 

Man  hath  believed,  and  still  believes  the  strong. 

When  injured  and  defenceless  woman  stands, 
■  Haply  the  child  of  innocence  or  youth. 


THE    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  373 

And  lifts  to  heaven  her  pleading  voice  and  hands 

In  all  the  moving  eloquence  of  truth, 
Who  will  believe,  in  that  most  trying  hour. 
Her  words  who  is  not  strong  in  wealth  or  power  ? 

Or  let  the  slave,  of  all  on  earth  bereft, 
Stand  up  to  plead  before  a  human  bar ; 

And  though  the  fetters  and  the  lash  have  left 
Upon  his  limbs  the  deep-attesting  scar, 

Who  trusts  his  tale,  or  who  will  rise  to  save 

From  wrong  and  injury  the  outcast  slave  ? 

If  a  poor,  friendless  criminal  appear, — 

A  criminal  which  men  themselves  have  made, 

By  the  injustice  and  oppression  here,  — 
Who  to  pronounce  him  '^  guilty  ^^  is  afraid? 

But  who,  if  rank  or  wealth  w^ere  doomed  thereby, 

Would  speak  that  final  word  as  fearlessly  ? 

Oh,  where  so  much  of  wrong  and  sorrow  are. 
There  must  be  need  of  an  unfaltering  trust 

In  His  all-seeing  watchfulness  and  care. 

Whose  ways  to  man  below  we  know  are  just ; 

In  Him,  whose  love  has  numbered  every  tear 

W^rung  from  his  weak,  defenceless  creatures  here. 

And  there  is  need  of  earnest,  full  belief, 
And  patient  work,  to  bring  that  holier  day 

When  there  shall  be  redress  for  humblest  grief. 
And  equal  right  and  justice  shall  have  sway; 

And  we  will  strive,  in  trustfulness  sublime. 

Hoping  our  eyes  may  see  the  blessed  time ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN   WOMAN  * 

0  BEAUTIFUL  as  Moming  in  those  hours 
When,  as  her  pathway  lies  along  the  hills, 

Her  golden  fingers  w^ake  the  dewy  flowers, 
And  softly  touch  the  waters  of  the  rills, 

*  Given  here  aa  reprinted,  with  a  few  slight  verbal  changes,  in  "  Poems  and 
Parodies." 


374  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

Was  she  who  walked  more  faintly  day  by  day, 
Till  silently  she  perished  by  the  way. 

It  was  not  hers  to  know  that  perfect  heaven 
Of  passionate  love  returned  by  love  as  deep, 

Not  hers  to  sing  the  cradle-song  at  even, 
Watching  the  beauty  of  her  babe  asleep ; 

"  Mother  and  brethren,"  —  these  she  had  not  known. 

Save  such  as  do  the  Father's  will  alone. 

Yet  found  she  something  still  for  which  to  live,  — 
Hearths  desolate,  where  angel-like  she  came  ; 

And  "  little  ones,"  to  whom  her  hand  could  give 
A  cup  of  water  in  her  Master's  name ; 

And  breaking  hearts,  to  bind  away  from  death 

With  the  soft  hand  of  pitying  love  and  faith. 

She  never  won  the  voice  of  popular  praise. 
But  counting  earthly  triumph  as  but  dross. 

Seeking  to  keep  her  Saviour's  perfect  ways. 
Bearing  in  quiet  paths  his  blessed  cross. 

She  made  her  life,  while  with  us  here  she  trod, 

A  consecration  to  the  will  of  God. 


And  she  hath  lived  and  labored  not  in  vain : 
Through  the  deep  prison-cells  her  accents  thrill. 

And  the  sad  slave  leans  idly  on  his  chain, 
And  hears  the  music  of  her  singing  still ; 

While  little  children,  with  their  innocent  praise. 

Keep  freshly  in  men's  hearts  her  Christian  ways. 

And  what  a  beautiful  lesson  she  made  known ! 

The  whiteness  of  her  soul  sin  could  not  dim ; 
Ready  to  lay  down  on  God's  altar-stone 

The  dearest  treasure  of  her  life  for  Him, 
Her  flame  of  sacrifice  never,  never  waned ; 
How  could  she  live  and  die  so  self-sustained? 


For  friends  supported  not  her  parting  soul, 

And  whispered  words  of  comfort,  kind  and  sweet, 


THE  HOMESICK  PEASANT.  375 

When  treading  onward  to  that  final  goal, 

Where  the  still  Bridegroom,  waited  for  her  feet ; 
Alone  she  walked,  yet  with  a  fearless  tread, 
Down  to  Death's  chamber  and  his  bridal  bed .' 


THE   HOMESICK  PEASANT. 

Oh  !  I  am  sick  of  cities  ;  all  night  long 

Orchards  and  corn-fields  waved  before  my  sight, 

Till  the  quick  moving  of  the  restless  throng 
Broke  on  that  pleasant  vision  of  the  night 

With  an  unw^elcome  sound,  and  called  my  feet 

Back  from  the  meadows  to  the  crowded  street. 

I  grew  a  child  of  Nature  on  the  hills. 

Learning  no  lessons  from  the  lips  of  Art, 

And  the  restraint  of  cities  cramps  and  chills 
The  warm,  impulsive  feelings  of  my  heart ; 

Even  the  ceaseless  stir  and  motion  here 

Grates  with  a  jarring  sound  upon  my  ear. 

It  is  not  like  my  childhood  :  from  the  trees, 

And  from  the  flowers  that  grew  beneath  my  feet, 

And  from  the  artless  whispers  of  the  breeze, 
I  never  learned  the  lessons  of  deceit : 

They  never  taught  me  that  my  heart  should  hide 

Its  thoughts  and  feelings  with  a  mask  of  pride. 

And  therefore  with  the  morning  I  awake. 
To  feel  a  homesick  yearning  for  the  hills  — 

A  thirst  no  water  on  the  earth  can  slake. 
Save  the  clear  gushing  of  my  native  rills ; 

And  I  once  more  upon  their  banks  would  stand, 

Free  as  the  breezes  of  my  native  land. 

Give  me  a  sweet  home,  set  among  the  trees. 

With  friends  whose  words  are  ever  kind  and  true. 

And  books  whose  stories  should  instruct  and  please, 
When  round  the  quiet  hearth  the  household  drew; 

For  in  their  pleasant  pages  I  can  find 

All  I  would  learn  of  cities  and  mankind. 


376  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY, 


HOMES   FOR   ALL  * 

Columbia,  fairest  nation  of  the  world, 
Sitting  in  queenly  beauty  in  the  west, 

With  all  thy  banners  round  about  thee  furled, 
Nursing  the  cherub  Peace  upon  thy  breast ; 

Never  did  daughter  of  a  kingly  line 

Look  on  a  lovelier  heritage  than  thine ! 

Thou  hast  deep  forests  stretching  far  away, 
The  giant  growth  of  the  long  centuries, 

From  whose  dim  shadows  to  the  light  of  day 
Come  forth  the  mighty  rivers  toward  the  seas, 

To  walk  like  happy  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 

Down  through  the  green  vales  of  our  pleasant  land. 

Thou  hast  broad  prairies,  where  the  lonely  flowers 
Blossom  and  perish  with  the  changing  year ; 

Where  harvests  wave  not  through  the  summer  hours. 
Nor  with  the  autumn  ripen  in  the  ear ; 

And  beautiful  lakes,  that  toss  their  milky  spray 

Where  the  strong  ship  hath  never  cleaved  its  way. 

And  yet  with  all  thy  broad  and  fertile  land, 
AVhere  hands  sow  not,  nor  gather  in  the  grain. 

Thy  children  come  and  round  about  thee  stand, 
Asking  the  blessing  of  a  home  in  vain,  — 

Still  lingering,  but  with  feet  that  long  to  press 

Through  the  green  windings  of  the  wilderness. 

In  populous  cities  do  men  live  and  die, 

That  never  breathe  the  pure  and  liberal  air ; 

Down  where  the  damp  and  desolate  rice-swamps  lie, 
Wearying  the  ear  of  Heaven  with  constant  prayer. 

Are  souls  that  never  yet  have  learned  to  raise 

Under  God's  equal  sky  the  psalm  of  praise. 

Turn  not,  Columbia !   from  their  pleading  eyes ; 

Give  to  thy  sons  that  ask  of  thee  a  home ; 
So  shall  they  gather  round  thee,  not  with  sighs, 

*  Keprinted  in  "  Poems  and  Parodies  "  under  the  title  '*  Plea  for  the  Homeless.' 


HARVEST   GATHERING.  377 

But  as  young  children  to  their  mother  come; 
And  brightly  to  the  centuries  shall  go  down 
The  glory  that  thou  wearest  like  a  crown. 


HARVEST   GATHERING. 

The  last  days  of  the  summer :  bright  and  clear 
Shines  the  warm  sun  down  on  the  quiet  land, 

Where  corn-fields,  thick  and  heavy  in  the  ear, 
Are  slowly  ripening  for  the  laborer's  hand ; 

Seed-time  and  harvest  —  since  the  bow  was  set, 

Not  vainly  has  man  hoped  your  coming  yet ! 

To  the  quick  rush  of  sickles,  joyously 

The  reapers  in  the  yellow  wheat-fields  sung. 

And  bound  the  pale  sheaves  of  the  ripened  rye, 
When  the  first  tassels  of  the  maize  were  hung; 

That  precious  seed  into  the  furrow  cast 

Earliest  in  spring-time,  crowns  the  harvest  last. 

Ever,  when  summer's  sun  burns  faint  and  dim, 
And  rare  and  few  the  pleasant  days  are  given, 

When  the  sweet  praise  of  our  thanksgiving  hymn 
Makes  beautiful  music  in  the  ear  of  Heaven, 

I  think  of  other  harvests  whence  the  sound 

Of  singing  comes  not  as  the  sheaves  are  bound. 

Not  where  the  rice-fields  whiten  in  the  sun, 

And  the  warm  South  casts  down  her  yellow  fruit, 

Shout  they  the  labors  of  the  autumn  done  — 
Eor  there  Oppression  casts  her  deadly  root. 

And  they,  who  sow  and  gather  in  that  clime, 

Share  not  the  treasures  of  the  harvest-time. 

God  of  the  seasons  !  thou  who  didst  ordain 
Bread  for  the  eater  who  shall  plant  the  soil. 

How  have  they  heard  thee,  who  have  forged  the  chain 
And  built  the  dungeon  for  the  sons  of  toll  ? 

Burdening  their  hearts,  not  with  the  voice  of  prayer. 

But  the  dull  cries  of  almost  dumb  despair. 


378  POEMS  BY  PIKE  BE   CARV. 

They  who  would  see  that  growth  of  wickedness 
Planted  where  now  the  peaceful  prairie  waves, 

And  make  the  green  paths  of  our  wilderness 
Red  with  the  torn  and  bleeding  feet  of  slaves  — 

Forbid  it,  Heaven  !  and  let  the  sharp  axe  be 

Laid  at  the  root  of  that  most  poison  tree ! 

Let  us  behold  its  deadly  leaves  begin 
A  fainter  shadow  o'er  the  world  to  cast. 

And  the  long  day  that  nursed  its  growth  of  sin 
Wane  to  a  sunset  that  shall  be  its  last ; 

So  that  the  day-star,  rising  from  the  sea, 

Shall  light  a  land  whose  children  will  be  free  ! 


LIFE   IS   NOT  VANITY. 

Are  ye  not  erring  teachers 

Who  tell  us,  that  below 
There  is  no  sparkling  fountain 

Where  living  waters  flow  ; 
That  all  earth's  well-springs  bubble  up 

With  bitter  drops  of  woe  ? 

That  life  's  a  night  of  darkness, 
With  scarce  a  cheering  star,  — 

That  we  cannot  make  our  trials 
Less  bitter  than  they  are,  — 

That  we  should  think  of  Heaven  alone, 
And  Heaven  itself  is  far. 

No  marvel  earth  is  dark  to  you 
Who  thus  in  shadows  keep,  — 

That  you  cannot  see  the  day-spring 
When  you  close  your  eyes  and  sleep ; 

Or  that  earth  is  but  a  vale  of  tears 
For  you  who  sit  and  weep. 

,You  tell  us  of  the  happiness 

Of  the  unchanging  sphere. 
Because  the  loved  and  loving  there 

To  bless  us  will  be  near  j 


PRAYER.  379 

If  that  be  heaven,  what  hinders  us 
To  make  a  heaven  here  ? 

Oh,  would  we  rouse  from  slumber, 

Life  hath  something  to  be  done ; 
We  may  lose  the  prize  by  faltering, 

Which  exertion  might  have  won ; 
And  when  we  strive  to  help  ourselves, 

The  Lord  will  aid  us  on. 

And  if  we  be  immortal, 

As  we  believe  and  know, 
Then  is  the  life  eternal 

Begun  in  life  below  ; 
And  hath  it  been  ordained  by  heaven, 

That  it  should  be  in  woe  ? 

No  !  and  though  trailing  shadows 

O'er  our  pathway  sometimes  move, 
Yet  below,  as  in  the  life  to  come, 

All  things  are  ruled  in  love, 
And  God  will  bless  as  willingly 

As  he  will  do  above  ! 

And  if  we  cheer  life's  marches, 

And  smooth  the  path  beneath, 
If  we  labor  for  advancement 

With  a  true  and  earnest  faith ; 
We  shall  stand  prepared  for  lengthened  years, 

Or  for  the  call  of  death ! 


PRAYER. 


Father  !  thou  didst  hear  my  prayer 
When  I  plead  with  thee  to  spare, 
When  I  asked  for  length  of  years, 
Thou  didst  pitying  see  my  tears, 
And  thy  words  in  answer  were, 
"  Respite  from  the  sepulchre  !  " 

Lo !  no  more  the  prayer  I  raise  : 
Life  hath  waned  to  evil  days ; 


380  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Veiling  in  the  dust  my  woes, 
I  would  bless  the  grave's  repose ; 
Sweeter,  sweeter  would  it  be, 
Than  a  lover's  dream  to  me. 

Long  enough  thy  child  hath  been 
Struggling  in  a  world  of  sin, 
Long  enough  have  doubts  assailed. 
Long  enough  the  flesh  prevailed. 
Long  enough  hath  sorrow  tried 
One  it  hath  not  purified. 

In  life's  hours  of  rosy  dawn, 

Hope  with  white  hand  led  me  on, 

Showing  gorgeous  imagery 

Of  a  happier  time  to  be ; 

But,  in  noonday's  clearer  flame. 

Blest  fruition  never  came. 

Hastening  now  towards  its  close 
Is  the  day  that  brightly  rose, 
And  the  hope  that  fled  its  prime 
Comes  not  at  the  evening  time ; 
Hear  me,  pity,  and  recall, 
Ere  the  midnight  shadows  fall ! 

Willing,  eager  to  depart, 
Old  in  years  and  old  in  heart. 
Waiting  but  the  messenger 
To  unseal  the  sepulchre, 
Lo  !  again  to  thee  I  come  — 
Take  me.  Father,  take  me  home ! 


MORNING.* 


Sadly,  when  the  day  was  done, 

To  his  setting  waned  the  sun ; 
Heavily  the  shadows  fell, 
And  the  wind  with  fitful  swell, 
Echoed  through  the  forest  dim 
Like  a  friar's  ghostly  hymn. 

*  Reprinted  in  "  Poems  and  Parodies." 


BURIAL   HYMN.  381 

Mournful  on  the  wall,  afar, 
Walked  the  evening  sentry-star ; 
Burning  clear,  and  cold,  and  lone, 
Midnight's  constellations  shone ; 
While  the  hours,  with  solemn  tread, 
Passed  like  watchers  by  the  dead. 

Now  at  last  the  Morning  wakes, 
And  the  spell  of  darkness  breaks. 
On  the  mountains,  dewy  sweet, 
Standing  with  her  rosy  feet, 
While  her  golden  fingers  fair 
Part  the  soft  flow  of  her  hair. 

With  the  dew  from  flower  and  leaf 
Flies  the  heavy  dew  of  grief ; 
From  the  darkness  of  my  thought, 
Night  her  solemn  aspect  caught ; 
And  the  morning's  joys  begin, 
As  a  morning  breaks  within. 

God's  free  sunshine  on  the  hills. 
Soft  mists  hanging  o'er  the  rills. 
Blushing  flowers  of  loveliness 
Trembling  with  the  light  wind's  kiss,  — 
0,  the  soul  forgets  its  care. 
Looking  on  a  world  so  fair ! 

Morning  wooes  me  with  her  charms. 
Like  a  lover's  pleading  arms; 
Soft  above  me  bend  her  skies. 
As  a  lover's  tender  eyes  ; 
And  my  heavy  heart  of  pain. 
Trembling,  thrills  with  hope  again. 


BURIAL   HYMN. 

Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ! 
Here,  in  calm  and  holy  trust. 
We  have  made  her  quiet  bed 
With  the  pale  hosts  of  the  dead, 


382  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

And,  with  hearts  that,  stricken,  weep, 
Come  to  lay  her  down  to  sleep. 

From  life's  weary  cares  set  free. 
Mother  Earth,  she  comes  to  thee ! 
Hiding  from  its  ills  and  storms 
In  the  shelter  of  thine  arms  : 
Peaceful,  peaceful  be  her  rest, 
Here  upon  thy  faithful  breast. 

And  when  sweetly  from  the  dust 
Heaven's  last  summons  calls  the  just, 
Saviour  !  when  the  nations  rise 
Up  to  meet  thee  in  the  skies. 
Gently,  gently,  by  the  hand. 
Lead  her  to  the  better  land ! 


SONG   OF  THE   REFORMED. 

Seeking  its  place  of  rest, 

Each  in  its  quiet  nest. 
All  the  glad  warblers  have  hushed  their  last  song ; 

And  the  first  star  of  night. 

With  her  faint  silver  light, 
Guideth  my  homeward  steps  safely  along. 

Oh !  to  that  quiet  home, 

With  what  delight  I  come. 
When  from  the  cares  of  the  day  I  am  free ; 

For  with  her  happy  smile, 

There  my  young  wife  the  while 
Sits  by  the  lattice  pane  watching  for  me. 

But  when  I  sought  the  board 

Where  the  red  wine  is  poured. 
Oft  has  she  fled  when  my  footsteps  drew  near. 

And  nestling  down  to  rest, 

Close  to  that  faithful  breast, 
Has  my  young  infant  turned  from  me  in  fear. 


THE   COLD    WATER   ARMY.  388 

Silently  then  each  day 

Passed  her  sad  life  away  — 
Silently  then  was  our  sweet  child  caressed ; 

Now  our  low  cabin  rings 

With  the  glad  song  she  sings, 
Kocking  it  nightly  to  sleep  on  her  breast. 

There  I  can  see  the  light 

Where  our  warm  hearth  is  bright, 
Oh!  is  there  bliss  more  ecstatic  above 

Than  this  full  heart  can  know, 

Blest  with  your  smiles  below, 
Wife  of  my  bosom  and  child  of  my  love  ? 


THE   COLD   WATER   ARMY. 

Firmly  they  still  have  stood, 

A  true  and  fearless  band, 
For  the  noble  cause  of  human  good 

Hath  nerved  each  heart  and  hand. 
And  they  fear  not  the  frowns  of  earth. 

The  mocking  sneers  of  men, 
For  they  fight  for  the  sacred  home  and  hearth. 

For  their  trampled  rights  again. 

In  their  ranks,  no  longer  thin  and  weak, 

Are  men  of  every  age, 
From  the  stripling  slight,  with  a  beardless  cheek, 

To  the  silver-headed  sage. 
Oh,  their  hosts  would  darken  the  summer  sea, 

Were  their  banners  all  outspread, 
And  the  dens  of  guilt  rock  tremblingly 

With  their  firm  and  heavy  tread. 

They  come  not,  an  invading  band, 

With  dreams  of  high  renown. 
To  spoil  the  homes  of  our  happy  land. 

And  trample  her  vineyards  down  ; 
But  to  hunt  that  monster  of  sin  and  crime. 

Which  the  slaves  of  the  wine-cup  know, 


384  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Who  tracks  his  way  in  a  path  of  slime 
O'er  the  fairest  flowers  below. 

For  undisturbed  has  he  roamed  the  earth 

Till  his  serpent  brood  have  come 
To  nest  themselves  in  the  very  hearth 

Of  many  a  once  bright  home. 
Yet,  hearing  the  widow's  and  orphan's  sigh, 

And  knowing  he  wounds  to  kill, 
There  are  those  so  deaf  to  a  nation's  cry 

They  would  shield  the  monster  still. 

But  our  army  follows  with  noiseless  tread 

Wherever  he  winds  his  way, 
As,  feeling  the  bruise  on  his  venomed  head, 

He  shrinks  from  the  light  of  day ; 
And  ne'er  on  the  unsheathed  sword  and  spear 

Will  their  hand  relax  its  grasp. 
Till  they  pause,  and  lean  on  their  arms,  to  hear 

The  sound  of  his  dying  gasp. 


COMING   HOME. 

How  long  it  seems  since  first  we  heard 

The  cry  of  "  Land  in  sight !  " 
Our  vessel  surely  never  sailed 

So  slowly  till  to-night. 
When  we  discerned  the  distant  hills, 

The  sun  was  scarcely  set. 
And  now  the  moon  of  night  is  passed. 

They  seem  no  nearer  yet. 

Where  the  blue  Rhine  reflected  back 

Each  frowning  castle  wall. 
Where,  in  the  forest  of  the  Hartz, 

Eternal  shadows  fall  — 
Or  where  the  yellow  Tiber  flowed 

By  the  old  hills  of  Rome, 
I  never  felt  such  restlessness. 

Such  longing  for  our  home. 


THE  REEFER.  885 

Dost  thou  remember,  oh !  my  friend, 

When  we  beheld  it  last, 
How  shadows  from  the  setting  sun 

Upon  our  cot  were  cast  ? 
Three  summer-times  upon  its  walls 

Have  shone  for  us  in  vain ; 
But,  oh  !  we  're  hastening  homeward  now, 

To  leave  it  not  again. 

There,  as  the  last  star  dropped  away, 

From  Night's  imperial  brow. 
Did  not  our  vessel  "  round  the  point  "  ? 

The  land  looks  nearer  now  ! 
Yes,  as  the  first  faint  beams  of  day 

Fall  on  our  native  shore, 
They  're  dropping  anchor  in  the  bay  — 

We  're  home,  we  're  home  once  more ! 


THE   EEEFEE. 

Yes,  sailor,  when  the  aiigry  deep 

Its  war  with  heaven  is  waging, 
I  '11  tell  thee  why  I  sit  and  weep 

When  thus  the  storm  is  raging. 
Once  when  the  sea,  as  now,  was  tossed 

With  fierce  and  wild  commotion, 
I  stood  unheeding  on  the  coast. 

And  watched  the  troubled  ocean. 

For  as  the  arrowy  bolts  were  hurled 

In  fiery  wrath  from  heaven. 
We  saw  afar,  with  canvas  furled, 

A  ship  through  darkness  driven. 
I  had  a  brother  then,  whose  bark 

Upon  the  sea  was  riding. 
And  when  I  saw  that  vessel  dark, 

I  knew  his  hand  was  guiding. 

And  now,  as  fiercer  came  the  light. 
And  as  the  storm  grew  drearer, 

We  saw  her  through  the  gathering  night 
Come  near  the  strand,  and  nearer  i 


386  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Already  fancy  clasped  once  more 
The  form  so  fondly  cherished, 

When,  reaching  to  the  fatal  shore. 
That  vessel  struck  and  perished ! 

And  now,  upon  the  sea,  whene'er 

The  black  clouds  o'er  us  hover, 
I  see  that  frail  bark  strike,  and  hear 

The  shriek  that  rose  above  her ! 
No  change  can  lull  my  thoughts  to  sleep, 

No  time  my  grief  assuages  ; 
And  therefore,  sailor,  do  I  weep, 

When  thus  the  tempest  rages. 


A   TIME   TO   DIE. 

Like  the  music  deep  and  solemn 

In  some  ruined  church, 
Floating  over  crumbling  column 

And  fallen  arch ; 
Through  the  naked  branches  trailing 

Low  on  the  ground. 
Come  the  winds  of  autumn  wailing 

With  a  ghostly  sound. 

Over  all  below  a  feeling 

Of  quiet  reigns. 
Like  a  drowsy  numbness  stealing 

Through  the  veins. 
Even  the  sun,  in  the  dim  haze  mourning, 

Hides  his  head, 
Like  a  sickly  taper  burning 

Beside  the  dead. 

And  all  day  one  feeling  busy 

In  my  soul  hath  wrought. 
Till  heart  and  brain  are  dizzy 

With  the  solemn  thought. 
In  the  shadow  of  deep  dejection 

I  sit  and  sigh. 
With  but  one  sad  reflection, 

"  A   TIME   TO    DIE  !  " 


DEATH  SCENE.  387 

O  God  of  the  soul  immortal ! 

If  death  be  near, 
Teach  me  to  tread  that  portal 

And  not  to  fear. 
Keep  thou  my  feet  from  turning 

Aside  to  die ; 
Let  my  lamp  be  filled  and  burning 

For  the  "  midnight  cry  "  ! 


DEATH   SCENE.* 

Dying,  still  slowly  dying, 

As  the  hours  of  night  wore  by, 
She  had  lain  since  the  light  of  sunset 

Was  red  on  the  evening  sky, — 

Till  after  the  middle  watches, 

As  we  softly  near  her  trod, 
When  her  soul  from  its  prison  fetters 

Was  loosed  by  the  hand  of  God. 

One  moment  her  pale  lips  trembled 
With  the  triumph  she  might  not  tell, 

As  the  light  of  the  life  immortal 
On  her  spirit's  vision  fell. 

Then  the  look  of  rapture  faded, 

And  the  beautiful  smile  waxed  faint, 

As  that  in  some  convent  picture 
On  the  face  of  a  dying  saint. 

And  we  felt  in  the  lonesome  midnight, 

As  we  sat  by  the  silent  dead. 
What  a  light  on  the  path  going  downward 

The  steps  of  the  righteous  shed  ;  — 

When  we  thought  how  with  feet  unshrinking 

She  came  to  the  Jordan's  tide, 
And,  taking  the  hand  of  the  Saviour, 

Went  up  on  the  heavenly  side ! 

*  Reprinted  in  "  Poems  and  Parodies." 


388  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY, 


THE   PLACE   OF   GEAVES. 

How  often  in  the  summers  gone, 

I  've  stood  where  these  memorials  rise, 

And  every  time  the  spot  had  grown 
Less  and  less  lonely  to  mine  eyes. 

The  first  I  ever  loved  that  died 

Sleeps  here,  where  these  sweet  roses  wave ; 
A  maiden,  with  life's  path  untried. 

She  left  the  sunshine  for  the  grave. 

And  what  a  place  of  desolate  gloom 
Seemed  then  to  me  the  realm  of  death, 

Though  she  I  loved  went  calmly  down, 
In  all  the  truthfulness  of  faith. 

The  next,  a  sweet  lamb  of  the  fold, 
An  infant,  lulled  to  slumber  lay, 

With  her  pale  locks  of  finest  gold 
Put  softly  from  her  brow  away. 

But  when  the  patient  mother  prest 
To  her  meek  lips  the  bitter  cup. 

And  came  with  those  she  loved  to  rest. 
Till  God  shall  call  the  sleepers  up. 

Then  the  dim  pathVay  grew  more  clear. 
That  leads  through  darkness  to  the  light, 

And  death  has  never  seemed  so  drear. 
Nor  heaven  so  distant  from  my  sight. 


PARTING   AND   MEETING. 

On  the  casements,  closed  and  lonesome, 

Is  falling  the  autumn  rain. 
And  my  heart  to-night  is  heavy 

With  a  sense  of  unquiet  pain. 


DEATH   OF  A    FRIEND.  389 

Kot  that  the  leaves  are  dying 

111  the  kiss  of  the  traitor  frost, 
And  not  that  the  summer  flowers 

On  the  bitter  winds  are  tossed. 

And  not  that  the  reaper's  singing 

The  time  no  longer  cheers, 
Bringing  home  through  the  mellow  starlight 

The  sheaves  and  the  yellow  ears. 

No,  not  from  these  am  I  sighing, 

As  the  hours  pass  slow  and  dull, 
For  God  in  his  own  time  maketh 

All  seasons  beautiful. 

But  one  of  our  household  number 

Sits  not  by  the  hearth-fire's  light, 
And  right  on  her  pathway  beating 

Is  the  rain  of  this  autumn  night. 

And  therefore  my  heart  is  heavy 

With  a  sense  of  unquiet  pain, 
For,  but  Heaven  can  tell  if  the  parted 

Shall  meet  in  the  earth  again. 

But  knowing  God's  love  extendeth 

Wherever  his  children  are, 
And  tenderly  round  about  them 

Are  the  arms  of  his  watchful  care ; 

With  him  be  the  time  and  the  season 

Of  our  meeting  again  with  thee. 
Whether  here  on  these  earthly  borders, 

Or  the  shore  of  the  world  to  be. 


DEATH   OF   A   FKIEND.* 

Where  leaves  by  bitter  winds  are  heaped 
In  the  deep  hollows,  damp  and  cold. 

And  the  light  snow-shower,  silently, 
Is  falling  on  the  yellow  mould, 

♦  Reprinted  in  "  Poems  and  Parodies," 


390  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

Sleeps  one  who  was  our  friend,  below ;  — 
With  meek  hands  folded  on  her  breast, 

When  the  first  flowers  of  summer  died, 
We  softly  laid  her  down  to  rest. 

By  her  were  blessings  freely  strewn, 
As  roses  by  the  summer's  breath ; 

Yet  nothing  in  her  perfect  life 
Was  half  so  lovely  as  her  death. 

In  the  meek  beauty  of  a  faith 

Which  few  have  ever  proved  like  her. 

She  shrunk  not  even  when  she  felt 
The  chill  breath  of  the  sepulchre. 

Heavier,  and  heavier  still,  she  leaned 
Upon  His  arm  who  died  to  save, 

As  step  by  step  He  led  her  down 
To  the  still  chamber  of  the  grave. 

'T  was  at  the  midnight's  solemn  watch 
She  sunk  to  slumber,  calm  and  deep : 

The  golden  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Shall  never  wake  her  from  that  sleep. 

From  him  who  was  her  friend  below. 

She  turned  to  meet  her  Heavenly  Guide ; 

"And  the  sweet  children  of  her  love. 
She  left  them  sleeping  when  she  died. 

Her  last  of  suns  went  calmly  down. 

And  when  the  morn  rose  bright  and  clear, 

Hers  was  a  holier  Sabbath-day 

Than  that  which  dawned  upon  us  here. 


LOVE   AT   THE   GRAVE. 

Remembrancer  of  nature's  prime, 
And  herald  of  her  fading  near. 

The  last  month  of  the  summer  time 
Of  leaves  and  flowers  is  with  us  here. 


LOVE  AT   THE    GRAVE.  391 

More  eloquent  than  lip  can  preach 
To  every  heart  that  hopes  and  fears, 

What  solemn  lessons  does  it  teach 
Of  the  quick  passage  of  our  years ! 

To  me  it  brings  sad  thoughts  of  one, 
Who,  in  the  summer's  fading  bloom. 

Bright  *  from  the  arms  of  love  went  down 
To  the  dim  silence  of  the  tomb. 

How  often  since  has  spring's  soft  shower 

Revived  the  life  in  nature's  breast, 
And  the  sweet  herb  and  tender  flower 

Have  been  renewed  above  her  rest ! 

How  many  summer  times  have  told 

To  mortal  hearts  their  rapid  flight. 
Since  first  this  heap  of  yellow  mould 

Shut  out  her  beauty  from  my  sight ! 

Since  first,  to  love's  sweet  promise  true, 

My  feet  beside  her  pillow  trod, 
Till  year  by  year  the  pathway  grew 

Deeper  and  deeper  in  the  sod ! 

Now  these  neglected  roses  tell 

Of  no  kind  hand  to  tend  them  nigh  ; 

Oh,  God !  I  have  not  kept  so  well 
My  faith  as  in  the  years  gone  by. 

But  here  to-day  my  step  returns. 

And,  kneeling  where  these  willows  wave, 

As  the  soft  flame  of  sunrise  burns 

Down  through  the  dim  leaves  to  thy  grave, 

I  cry.  Forgive  that  I  should  prove 

Forgetful  of  thy  memory  ; 
Forgive  me,  that  a  living  love 

Once  came  between  my  soul  and  thee ! 

*  Corrected  to  "  Right  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


392  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

For  the  weak  heart  that  faintly  *  yearned 
For  human  love  its  life  to  cheer, 

Baffled  and  bleeding  has  returned 
To  stifle  down  its  crying  here. 

For,  steadfast  still,  thy  faith  to  me 

Was  one  which  earth  could  not  estrange : 

And,  lost  one !  where  the  angels  be 
I  know  affection  may  not  change. 


STEENGTH   OF   SIN. 

How  lately  and  this  beautiful  earth 
Was  shut  by  darkness  from  my  sight, 

And  all  the  mighty  arch  of  blue 

Was  sparkling  with  its  worlds  of  light 

Waning  and  waning,  one  by  one 
They  vanished  as  the  day-star  rose. 

Till,  lo !  along  the  distant  hills 

The  fire  of  sunrise  burns  and  glows. 

And  turning  from  the  hosts  of  heaven 
To  the  calm  beauty  of  the  earth, 

I  feel  what  goodness  must  be  His 
Who  spoke  its  glories  into  birth. 

More  than  our  hearts  can  comprehend, 
Or  our  weak,  blinded  eyes  can  see. 

The  wisdom  and  the  love  of  God, 
How  mighty  and  how  vast  they  be. 

Too  fair  for  us  to  hate  or  leave 

This  world  His  hand  has  placed  us  in, 

But  for  the  presence  and  the  power 
Of  that  most  fiery  serpent,  sin  — 

That  first  in  Eden's  peaceful  shade 
Uncoiled  its  bright  and  deadly  folds, 

And  living  still,  and  unsubdued. 

Sends  its  dark  poison  through  our  souls. 

*  Corrected  to  "  vainly  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


THE    WOMEN  AT   THE   SEPULCHRE.       393 

But  from  his  creatures,  blind  and  lost, 

God  never  wholly  turned  aside, 
As  power  to  save  us  from  the  curse 

Was  sent  us  when  the  Saviour  died. 

All  that  is  left  us  under  heaven, 

Hope  of  the  lost  and  sin-enslaved. 
The  only  Name  on  earth  that  's  given, 

Whereby  the  souls  of  men  are  saved. 

Thanks  unto  God,  that  He  was  sent 

A  sacred  warfare  to  begin, 
That  in  the  end  shall  surely  crush 

And  bind  the  infernal  strength  of  sin ! 

That  by  Him  it  shall  be  at  last 

Out  from  this  fair  creation  hurled. 
Who  gave  its  death-blow  when  the  cross 

Was  darkly  planted  in  the  world. 

And  thanks  to  Him,  that  when  the  soul 

In  agony  for  mercy  calls, 
Right  in  the  shadow  of  that  cross 

The  sunlight  of  His  pardon  falls. 


THE   WOMEN   AT   THE   SEPULCHRE. 

MoRX  broke  on  Calvary,  and  the  sun  was  flinging 
The  earliest  brightness  from  his  locks  abroad. 

As  the  meek  sisters  came  in  sadness,  bringing 
Gifts  of  sweet  spices  to  anoint  their  Lord. 

They  who  had  loved  his  blessed  precepts  ever. 
And  linger'd  with  him  when  the  earth  was  gloom, 

They  were  the  faithful  who  reviled  him  never, 
"  Last  at  the  cross,  and  earliest  at  the  tomb ! " 

I  've  sometimes  thought  I  never  could  inherit 
A  glorious  mansion  in  the  skies  above  : 

Eor,  oh !  how  weak  and  faltering  is  my  spirit. 
Compared  with  such  undying  faith  and  love ! 


394  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    GARY. 

But,  Father,  cannot  all  that  heavenly  meekness, 
That  deathless  love  which  all  things  could  endure, 

Can  it  not  plead  before  Thee,  for  the  weakness 
Of  one  whose  faith  is  oft  so  faint  and  poor  ? 


MELODY. 


The  beautiful  eve,  in  her  sparkling  tiara. 

With  dew-dropping  lingers  is  closing  the  flower. 

Where  thou,  oh !  my  white-bosomed  bird  of  the  prairie, 
Art  watching  and  waiting  for  me  in  our  bower. 

My  heart,  beating  quick  as  the  pulse  of  the  ocean, 
Outstrips  e'en  my  courser,  to  see  thee  again ; 

Though  his  limbs  are  as  lithe  and  as  fleet  in  their  motion 
As  the  barb  in  the  desert,  or  roe  on  the  plain. 

My  heart  feels  no  presage  of  evil  or  danger. 

For  thou  never  wouldst  fly,  lovely  warbler,  from  me ; 

And  T  hid  thee  so  well  that  the  spoiler  and  stranger 
Could  track  not  the  windings  which  lead  me  to  thee. 

Yet  faster,  my  steed :  for  the  starlight  discloses 
Our  bower,  but  no  minstrel  its  shadows  among ;  — 

Yes,  something  is  fluttering  like  wings  in  the  roses, 
And,  bird  of  my  bosom !  I  hear  thy  sweet  song. 


CHANGES.* 


Under  the  evening  splendor 

Of  spring's  sweet  skies. 
Learned  I  love's  lesson  tender, 

From  the  maiden's  eyes. 

When  the  stars,  like  lovers  meeting. 

In  the  blue  appeared. 
And  my  heart,  tumultuous  beating, 

Hoped  and  feared,  — 

*  Reprinted  in  "  Poems  and  Parodies." 


CHANGES.  395 

Then  the  passion,  long  dissembled, 

My  lip  made  known, 
And  the  hand  of  the  maiden  trembled 

In  my  own,  — 

Till  the  tears  that  gushed  unbidden, 

Unrepressed, 
And  the  crimson  blush  were  hidden 

On  my  breast. 

And  there  in  that  vale  elysian, 

Through  the  summer  bland. 
We  walked  in  a  tranced  vision. 

Hand  in  hand. 

There  the  evening  shadows  found  us 

Side  by  side, 
While  the  glorious  roses  round  us 

Bloomed  and  died. 

And  when  the  bright  sun,  waning, 

Dimly  burned,  — 
When  the  wind,  with  sad  complaining, 

In  the  valley  mourned,  — 

When  the  bridal  roses  faded 

In  her  hair. 
And  her  brow  was  sweetly  shaded 

With  a  thought  of  care,  — 

Then  with  heart  still  fondly  thrilling. 

But  "with  calmer  bliss, 
From  the  lip  no  more  unwilling 

I  claimed  the  kiss. 

Then  our  dreams,  with  love  o'erladen. 

Were  verified. 
And  dearer  to  me  than  the  maiden 

Grew  the  bride. 

But  when  the  dead  leaves  drifted 

In  that  valley  low. 
And  down  from  the  cold  sky  sifted 

The  noiseless  snow,  — 


396  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Where  the  hearts  of  the  faithful  moulder 

With  the  dead, 
They  made  her  a  pillow  colder 

Than  the  bridal  bed. 

And  there  at  the  spring's  returning, 

With  the  summer's  glow, 
When  the  autumn  sun  is  burning, 

In  the  winter's  snow,  — 

With  the  ghosts  of  the  dim  past  ever 

Gliding  round, 
Walk  I  in  that  vale,  as  a  river 

That  makes  no  sound. 


FEARS. 


Fold  me  closer  to  thy  bosom. 
Let  me  feel  thy  clasping  hand ; 

Wilder  grows  the  night,  and  drearer  — 
Shall  we  never  reach  the  land  ? 

Thrice  from  dreams  of  broken  slumber 

Have  I  started  in  affright ; 
On  the  shore  I  never  trembled 

As  I  tremble  here  to-night. 

Nay,  't  is  not  the  haunting  beauty 
Of  some  lovely  vision  gone  — 

But  the  watches  wear  so  heavy ; 
Leave  me,  leave  me  not  alone ! 

Yes,  I  know  the  waves  are  calmer, 
And  the  sky  has  lost  its  frown. 

But  the  sharp  reefs,  ere  the  morning 
We  may  strike  them,  and  go  down ! 

Said  you  that  the  dawn  is  breaking, 
With  its  gray  uncertain  light  ? 

Look  !  I  dare  not  trust  my  vision  — 
Are  the  cliffs  of  home  in  sight  ? 


THE    WATCHER.  397 

Hush  !  I  cannot,  listening  eager, 

Hear  the  heavy  billows  roar ; 
We  are  standing  in  still  water  — 

We  are  nearing  to  the  shore ! 

Yes,  above  us,  streaming  seaward. 
Shine  the  red  lights  of  the  tower ; 

We  are  anchored  —  we  are  mooring  — 
God  be  praised  for  such  an  hour ! 


THE   WATCHER. 

'T  is  the  third  summer  that  has  gone, 
Since  first  upon  that  sloping  hill, 

He  listened  for  the  feet  of  one 
W^hose  coming  he  is  waiting  still. 

All  through  the  evenings  warm  and  bland, 
When  the  red  sunset  lights  the  skies, 

Then  first  we  see  the  watcher  stand, 
With  hope  reflected  in  his  eyes : 

Still  waiting  through  the  tranquil  hours. 
Till  eve  with  fingers,  fair  and  slight, 

Has  folded  up  to  sleep  the  flowers. 
And  left  them  with  the  peaceful  night. 

But  when  the  stars  like  fire-sparks  glow 
In  the  far  pavement  of  the  sky. 

Then  hope,  that  lingered  on  till  now, 
Fades  slowly  from  his  cheek  and  eye. 

And  when  the  still  night,  wearing  on, 

Has  almost  broken  into  day. 
As  if  he  knew  she  would  not  come. 

He  turns  with  mournful  step  away. 

Oh,  heavily,  and  dull,  and  slow. 
Such  hours  of  anxious  vigil  wane : 

God  keep  that  watcher  in  his  woe, 
Who  looks  for  coming  feet  in  vain. 


398  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

'T  was  on  the  morning  of  a  day- 
Sweet  as  the  night-time  ever  nursed, 

Her  white  arms  filled  with  flowers  of  May, 
He  saw  the  village  maiden  first. 

Like  the  last  hues  of  dying  day, 

Which  sunset  from  his  path  has  rolled. 

The  roses  of  the  summer  lay 
Softly  among  her  locks  of  gold. 

Singing  a  soft  and  plaintive  lay, 
She  won  him  with  her  gentle  tone. 

And  then  he  stole  her  heart  away 
With  voice  as  witching  as  her  own. 

And  once,  when  the  sweet  stars  as  now 
Look  calmly  down  upon  that  hill, 

Their  young  hearts  breathed  the  tender  vow 
Which  one  has  kept  so  faithful  still. 

And  meeting  nightly,  't  was  not  strange, 
But  yet  he  dreamed  not  love  could  wane, 

Or  thought  that  human  hearts  might  change, 
Until  he  waited  there  in  vain. 

And  still,  to  meet  her  on  that  height, 
He  lingers  as  in  summers  gone, 

Till  evening  deepening  into  night. 
He  wakes  to  find  himself  alone. 

For  none  till  now  have  ever  told 
That  watcher  of  expectant  hours. 

How  long  ago  her  locks  of  gold 

Were  braided  with  the  bridal  flowers. 


CHALMERS.* 


In  the  hush  of  the  desolate  midnight, 

Leaving  no  brighter  behind, 
A  noble  light  was  stricken 

From  the  galaxy  of  mind. 

*  Reprinted  in  "Poems  and  Parodies  "  with  the  ortiission  of  the  first  and  last 
stanzas. 


SONG.  399 

As  the  red  lights  down  in  the  water, 

When  a  boat  shoots  into  the  sea, 
Or  a  star  through  the  thin  blue  ether, 

He  vanished  silently. 

Not  the  counsel  of  ghostly  fathers 

Showed  him  the  way  he  trod, 
Not  the  picture  of  saints  and  martyrs, 

Nor  the  smile  of  the  Mother  of  God ; 

Not  the  love-lighted  brows  of  kindred, 

Nor  the  words  of  a  faithful  friend, 
Opened  up  the  way  to  his  vision. 

And  cheered  him  to  the  end. 

As  a  God-fearing  man,  and  holy. 

He  had  passed  through  the  snares  beneath. 
And  he  needed  no  aid  to  strengthen 

His  soul  in  the  hour  of  death. 

The  steps  of  his  faith  were  planted 
Where  the  waves  in  vain  might  beat. 

While  the  waters  of  death  rose  darkly, 
And  closed  around  his  feet. 

Not  the  "  Save,  or  T  perish! "  of  Peter, 

Was  his  as  he  faintly  trod. 
But  the  trust  of  that  first  blest  martyr. 

Falling  asleep  in  God. 

And  we  may  not  mourn  the  brightness 

That  is  taken  from  our  sky, 
Which  shall  teach  to  the  unborn  ages 

The  way  to  live  and  die. 


SONG. 

The  first  and  loveliest  star  of  even 

Shines  on  me  with  its  first*  sweet  light 

O  thou,  to  whom  my  heart  is  given, 
What  visions  haunt  thy  soul  to-night  ? 

»  Corrected  to  "  faint  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


400  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Dost  thou,  as  this  soft  twilight  steals 
So  mildly  over  hill  and  plain, 

Think  of  the  hour  we  parted  last. 
And  wish  me  by  thy  side  again  ? 

I  ask  not  that  thy  love  should  be 
As  deep,  as  trusting  as  my  own, 

I  do  not  ask  that  thou  shouldst  feel 
All  that  my  woman's  heart  has  known: 

But  if,  for  every  thousand  times 
My  spirit  fondly  turns  to  thee. 

One  thought  of  thine  to  me  is  given, 
I  doubt  not  thy  fidelity. 

Eor  me,  when  on  the  hills  alone, 
Or  treading  through  the  noisy  mart, 

There  is  no  time,  there  is  no  place, 
But  thou  art  with  me  in  my  heart. 

I  only  think  upon  the  past, 

Or  dream  of  happier  days  to  be, 

And  every  hope  and  every  fear 

Is  something  hoped  or  feared  for  thee. 


THE   CONFESSION.* 

In  the  moonlight  of  the  Springtime, 
Trembling,  blushing,  half  afraid, 

Heard  I  first  the  fond  confession 
From  the  sweet  lips  of  the  maid. 

As  the  roses  of  the  Summer, 
By  his  warm  embraces  won. 

Take  a  fairer,  richer  color 

From  the  glances  of  the  sun  ;  — 

So  as,  gazing,  earnest,  anxious, 
I  besought  her  but  to  speak. 

Deep  and  deeper  burned  the  crimson 
Of  the  blushes  in  her  cheek  ;  — 

*  Eeprinted  in  "  Poems  and  Parodies." 


THE   ILLS    OF  LIFE.  401 

Till  at  last,  with  happy  impulse, 

Impulse  that  she  might  not  check. 
As  it  softly  thrilled  and  trembled. 

Stole  her  white  arm  round  my  neck ;  — 

And  with  lips,  that,  half  averted 

From  the  lips  that  bent  above, 
Met  the  kiss  of  our  betrothal, 

Told  the  maiden  of  her  love. 


THE   ILLS   OF   LIFE. 

How  oft,  when  pursued  by  evils. 
We  falter  and  faint  by  the  way, 

But  are  fearless  when,  o'ertaken, 
We  pause,  and  turn  at  bay. 

When  storms  in  the  distance  have  gathered, 
I  have  trembled  their  wrath  to  meet. 

Yet  stood  firm  when  the  arrowy  lightning 
Has  fallen  at  my  feet. 

My  soul  in  the  shadows  of  twilight 

Has  groaned  beneath  its  load, 
And  felt  at  the  solemn  midnight 

Secure  in  the  hand  of  God. 

I  have  been  with  friends  who  were  cherished 

All  earthly  things  above, 
Till  I  deemed  the  death-pangs  lighter 

Than  the  pangs  of  parting  love. 

Yet  with  one  fearful  struggle, 
When  at  last  the  dread  blow  fell, 

I  have  kept  my  heart  from  breaking. 
And  calmly  said.  Farewell ! 

I  have  looked  at  the  grave,  and  shuddered 

For  my  kindred  treading  near. 
And  when  their  feet  had  entered, 

My  soul  forgot  its  fear. 


402  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

Our  ills  are  not  so  many 
Nor  so  hard  to  bear  below, 

But  our  suffering  in  dread  of  the  future 
Is  more  than  our  present  woe. 

We  see  with  our  vision  imperfect 
Such  causes  of  doubt  and  fear  — 

Some  yet  that  are  far  in  the  distance, 
And  some  that  may  never  be  near  — 

When,  if  we  would  trust  in  His  wisdom 
Whose  purpose  we  may  not  see, 

We  would  find,  whatever  our  trials. 
As  our  day  our  strength  shall  be. 


THE   BRIDE. 


Like  the  music  of  an  arrow, 

Bushing,  singing  from  the  string. 

Was  the  sound  in  the  June  roses 
Of  each  homeward  cleaving  wing. 

Where  the  leaves  were  softly  parted 

By  a  hand  of  snowy  grace. 
Letting  in  a  shower  of  sunlight 

Brightly  o'er  an  eager  face ; 

O'er  the  young  face  of  a  maiden. 
Touched  by  changing  hope  and  fear, 

As  the  sound  of  rapid  hoof-strokes, 
Nearing,  fell  upon  the  ear. 

White  robes  softly  heaving,  fluttering, 
O'er  her  bosom's  rise  of  snow, 

Spoke  the  strange  and  soft  confession  * 
Of  the  beating  heart  below. 

And  the  face  had  sweet  revealings, 
Sweeter  than  the  lip  may  speak. 

For  the  soft  fires  of  confession 
Lit  their  crimson  in  the  cheek. 

*  Corrected  to  "  confusion  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


THE   BRIDE.  403 


Not  for  friend,  and  not  for  brother, 
Kept  she  eager  vigil  there ; 

Not  for  friend,  and  not  for  brother, 
Gleamed  the  roses  in  her  hair. 


Myriad  frost-sparks  fire-like  glittered 

In  the  keen  and  bitter  air, 
And  no  wild  bird,  dropping  downward, 

Stirred  the  branches  cold  and  bare. 

Flaming  in  the  glorious  forehead 
Of  the  midnight,  high  and  lone, 

Starry  constellations,  steadfast, 
Yet*  like  burning  jewels  shone; 

When,  from  a  sick  couch  uplifted, 
A  thin  hand,  most  snowy  white, 

Parted  back  the  curtains  softly. 
Letting  in  the  pallid  light. 

Eyes  of  more  than  mortal  brightness 
Spoke  the  waiting  heart's  desire. 

And  the  hollow  cheeks  were  lighted 
With  a  quick,  consuming  fire. 

That  young  watcher  in  the  roses, 

Of  the  earnest  eye  and  brow. 
Keeps  again  her  anxious  vigil ; 
■  Who  shall  end  its  moments  now  ? 


Lo!  the  breast  is  softly  trembling, 
But  with  hope  that  has  no  fear : 

By  that  happy  smile  the  Presence 
She  hath  waited  for  is  near ! 

For  a  bridegroom  hath  she  tarried ; 

Bring  the  roses  for  her  brow  ; 
Though  no  human  passion  answers 

To  his  icy  kisses  now. 

*  Corrected  to  "  Set  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


404  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    GARY. 

Bride  of  earth !  here,  hoping,  fearing, 
Evil  were  thy  days,  and  vain ; 

Bride  of  heaven  !  for  blest  fruition 
Thou  shalt  never  wait  again. 


KEMEMBEANCE. 

I  HAVE  struggled  long  with  weakness, 
But  my  heart  is  free  at  last ; 

Never  more  will  it  be  haunted 
With  the  phantoms  of  the  past. 

Never  more,  from  fairest  maiden, 
The  light  witchery  of  a  word 

Shall  thrill  my  heart  with  rapture, 
When  its  magic  tones  are  heard. 

And  that  heart,  so  long  made  heavy 

With  inquietude  and  woe, 
Erom  its  fetters  loosed,  is  ringing,* 

Like  a  quick  shaft  from  the  bow. 

Eorgotten  be  the  trusted 

That  have  lightly  broke  their  trust : 
And  the  dreams  that  I  have  cherished, 

Let  them  perish  in  the  dust ! 

Yet  there  was  one  fair  maiden. 
Sweetest  vision  of  my  youth. 

She  was  lovely  when  I  loved  her, 
And  her  words  were  like  the  truth. 

And  they  may  have  torn  her  from  me ; 

She  was  faithful  once,  I  know  — 
No,  she  smiled  beside  the  altar. 

And  't  was  not  to  hide  her  woe ! 

And  how  can  she,  smiling,  meet  me 
With  that  fearless,  open  brow  ? 

'T  was  like  heaven,  of  old,  to  kiss  it, 
'T  would  be  heaven  to  kiss  it  now. 

*  Corrected  to  "  singing  "  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  copy. 


ENTERING  HEAVEN.  405 

Pause,  remembrance,  since  forever, 

Leila,  dreams  of  thee  are  sin  — 
Oh,  I  thought  my  heart  was  stronger 

Till  I  paused  and  looked  within ! 


ENTERING   HEAVEN. 

Softly  part  away  the  tresses 
From  her  forehead  of  white  clay, 

And  across  her  quiet  bosom 
Let  her  pale  hands  lightly  lay  ; 

Never  idly  in  her  lifetime 
Were  they  folded  thus  away. 

She  hath  lived  a  life  of  labor, 
She  has  done  with  toil  and  care, 

She  hath  lived  a  life  of  sorrow, 
She  has  nothing  more  to  bear, 

And  the  lips  that  never  murmured 
Never  more  shall  move  in  prayer. 

You  who  watched  with  me  beside  her. 
As  her  last  of  nights  went  by, 

Know  how  calmly  she  assured  us 
That  her  hour  was  drawing  nigh ; 

How  she  told  us,  sweetly  smiling, 
She  was  glad  that  she  could  die. 

Many  times  from  off  the  pillow 
Lifting  up  her  face  to  hear, 

She  had  seemed  to  watch  and  listen, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  in  fear. 

Often  asking  those  about  her 
If  the  day  were  drawing  near. 

Till  at  last,  as  one  aweary. 

To  herself  she  murmured  low, 

"  Could  I  see  him,  could  I  bless  him 
Only  once  before  I  go ; 

If  he  knew  that  I  was  dying, 
He  would  come  to  me,  I  know." 


406  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Drawing  then  my  head  down  gently, 

Till  it  lay  beside  her  own, 
Said  she,  "  Tell  him  in  his  anguish, 

When  he  finds  that  I  am  gone. 
That  the  bitterness  of  dying 

Was  to  leave  him  here  alone. 

"  Leave  me  now,  my  dear  ones,  leave  me, 
You  are  wearied  now,  I  know ; 

You  have  all  been  kind  and  watchful, 
You  can  do  no  more  below. 

And  if  none  I  love  are  near  me, 
'T  will  be  easier  to  go. 

"  Let  your  warm  hands  chill  not  slipping 

From  my  fingers'  icy  tips, 
Be  there  not  the  touch  of  kisses 

On  my  uncaressing  lips, 
Let  no  kindness  see  the  darkening 

Of  my  eyes'  last,  long  eclipse. 

"  Never  think  of  me  as  lying 
By  the  dismal  mould  o'erspread. 

But  about  the  soft  white  pillow 
Folded  underneath  my  head ; 

And  of  summer  flowers  weaving 
A  rich  broidery  o'er  my  bed. 

"  Think  of  the  immortal  spirit 

Living  up  above  the  sky. 
And  of  how  my  face,  there  wearing 

Light  of  immortality, 
Looking  earthward,  is  o'erleaning 

The  white  bastions  of  the  sky." 

Stilling  then,  with  one  last  effort, 
All  her  weakness  and  her  woe, 

She  seemed  wrapt  in  pleasant  visions 
But  to  wait  her  time  to  go ; 

For  she  never  after  midnight 
Spoke  of  anything  below,  — 


OUR   BABY.  407 

But  kept  murmuring  very  softly 

Of  cool  streams  and  pleasant  bowers, 

Of  a  pathway  going  up  brightly, 

Where  the  fields  were  white  with  flowers ; 

And  at  daybreak  she  had  entered 
On  a  better  life  than  ours. 


OUR   BABY. 


When  the  morning,  half  in  shadow, 
Kan  along  the  hill  and  meadow. 
And  with  milk-white  fingers  parted 
Crimson  roses,  golden-hearted ; 
Opening  over  ruins  hoary 
Every  purple  morning-glory, 
And  outshaking  from  the  bushes 
Singing  larks  and  pleasant  thrushes  ;  — 
That 's  the  time  our  little  baby, 
Strayed  from  Paradise,  it  may  be. 
Came  with  eyes  like  heaven  above  her : 
0,  we  could  not  choose  but  love  her ! 

Not  enough  of  earth  for  sinning. 
Always  gentle,  always  winning, 
Never  needing  our  reproving, 
Ever  lovely,  ever  loving ; 
Starry  eyes  and  sunset  tresses, 
W^hite  arms,  made  for  light  caresses. 
Lips  that  knew  no  word  of  doubting. 
Often  kissing,  never  pouting ; 
Beauty  even  in  completeness. 
Overfull  in  childish  sweetness ;  — 
That 's  the  way  our  little  baby. 
Far  too  pure  for  earth,  it  may  be. 
Seemed  to  us,  who  while  about  her 
Deemed  we  could  not  do  without  her. 

When  the  morning,  half  in  shadow, 
Ran  along  the  hill  and  meadow, 
And  with  milk-white  fingers  parted 
Crimson  roses,  golden-hearted; 


408  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Opening  over  ruins  hoary 
Every  purple  morning-glory, 
And  outshaking  from  the  bushes 
Singing  larks  and  pleasant  thrushes :  — 
That 's  the  time  our  little  baby, 
Pining  here  for  heaven,  it  may  be. 
Turning  from  our  bitter  weeping, 
Closed  her  eyes  as  when  in  sleeping^ 
And  her  white  hands  on  her  bosom 
Folded  like  a  summer  blossom. 

Now  the  litter  she  doth  lie  on. 
Strewed  with  roses,  bear  to  Zion ; 
Go,  as  past  a  pleasant  meadow 
Through  the^valley  of  the  shadow ; 
Take  her  softly,  holy  angels. 
Past  the  ranks  of  God's  evangels, 
Past  the  saints  and  martyrs  holy, 
To  the  Earth-born,  meek  and  lowly ; 
We  would  have  our  precious  blossom 
Softly  laid  in  Jesus'  bosom. 


THE   OUTCAST. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
And  brother  nor  sister,  lover  nor  friend, 
Came  not  near  her  their  aid  to  lend, 

Ere  the  spirit  took  its  flight. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
Food  and  raiment  she  had  no  more, 
And  the  fire  had  died  on  the  hearth  before, 

'T  was  a  pitiful,  pitiful  sight. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
No  napkin  pressed  back  the  parted  lips; 
No  weeper,  watching  the  eyes'  eclipse, 

Covered  them  up  from  sight. 


THE    LIFE    OF'  TRIAL.  409 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night: 
And  there  was  no  taper  beside  the  dead, 
But  the  stars,  through  the  broken  roof  o'erhead, 

Shone  with  a  solemn  light. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
And  the  winter  snow  spread  a  winding-sheet 
Over  the  body  from  head  to  feet. 

Dainty,  and  soft,  and  white. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
But  if  she  heard,  ere  her  hour  was  o'er, 
"I  have  not  condemned  thee,  —  sin  no  more," 

She  lives  where  the  day  is  bright. 


THE   LIFE   OF   TEIAL. 

I  AM  glad  her  life  is  over. 

Glad  that  all  her  trials  are  past; 

For  her  pillow  was  not  softened 
Down  with  roses  to  the  last. 

When  sharp  thorns  choked  up  the  pathway 
Where  she  wandered  sad  and  worn, 

Never  kind  hand  pressed  them  backward, 
So  her  feet  were  pierced  and  torn. 

And  when  life's  stern  course  of  duty 
Through  the  fiery  furnace  ran, 

Never  saw  she  one  beside  her, 
Like  unto  the  Son  of  Man. 

Ere  the  holy  dew  of  baptism 

Cooled  her  aching  forehead's  heat, 

Heaviest  waters  of  affliction 

Many  times  had  touched  her  feet. 

Long  for  her  deliverance  w^aiting. 
Clung  she  to  the  cross  in  vain ; 

With  an  agonizing  birth-cry 
Was  her  spirit  born  again. 


410  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

And  her  path  grew  always  rougher 
Wearier,  wearier,  still  she  trod, 

Till,  through  gates  of  awful  anguish, 
She  went  in  at  last  to  God ! 


OUR  FRIEND. 

We  tried  to  win  her  from  her  grief, 

To  soothe  her  great  despair ; 
We  showed  her  how  the  starry  flowers 

Were  growing  everywhere,  — 
The  starry  flowers  she  used  to  braid 

At  evening  in  her  hair. 

We  told  her  our  hearts,  for  her, 

Beat  mournfully  and  low ; 
How  lines  were  deepening,  day  by  day, 

Across  her  father's  brow ; 
And  how  her  little  brother  drooped,  — 

He  had  no  playmate  now. 

And  then  she  spoke  of  weary  nights, 

Of  dull  and  sleepless  pain, 
And  how  she  grieved  that  loving  friends 

Should  plead  with  her  in  vain ; 
And  hoped  that  when  the  summer  came 

She  should  be  well  again. 

Still  softly  singing  to  herself 
Sad  words  of  plaintive  rhyme. 

She  always  watched  the  sun's  soft  glow 
Fade  off  at  eventime, 

As  one  who  nursed  a  pleasant  dream 
Of  some  delicious  clime. 

Thus,  sweetly  as  the  flowers  that  once 

She  wore  at  eventide. 
Faded  and  drooped  the  gentle  girl, 

A  blossom  by  our  side. 
And  her  young  light  of  life  went  out 

With  sunset,  when  she  died  ! 


THE   CONVICT'S   CHILD.  411 


THE  CONVICT'S  CHILD. 

Unlock  the  still  home  of  the  dead ; 

Down  to  its  slumber  we  would  lay 
One,  who,  with  firm,  unshrinking  tread, 

Drew  near  and  nearer  day  by  day. 

For  when  the  morn  of  life  for  her 
Hid  all  its  beautiful  light  in  tears, 

The  shadow  of  the  sepulchre 

Wore  in  her  soul  no  human  fears. 

Even  in  the  spring-time  of  her  youth, 
Before  that  she  had  wept  or  striven, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  love  and  truth, 
She  gave  her  young  heart  up  to  heaven. 

Something  prophetic  of  her  doom 

Before  her  vision  sadly  rose ; 
So,  ere  the  evil  days  had  come. 

She  gathered  strength  to  meet  their  woes. 

Child  of  a  lost  and  guilty  sire, 

She  felt,  what  time  must  darkly  prove. 
That  home  and  hearth  were  not  for  her,' 

Nor  the  sweet  ministries  of  love. 

And  when  her  trembling  heart  at  last 
By  maiden  hopes  and  fears  was  thrilled. 

Clasping  the  sacred  cross  more  fast. 
That  pleading  for  the  earth  was  stilled. 

Turning  from  eyes  whose  tender  ray 
Burned  with  affection  true  and  deep, 

Love's  passionate  kisses  never  lay 
Upon  her  forehead  but  in  sleep. 

Yet  more  than  mortal  may  be  tried 
Was  she  who  firmly  bore  that  part, 

And  the  meek  martyr  slowly  died 
In  crushing  down  the  human  heart. 


412    ,  POEMS  BY  PUCEBE    GARY. 

Pitying  in  such  a  world  of  storms 
Tlie  woes  of  that  unsheltered  breast, 

Death  kindly  took  her  in  his  arms. 
And  rocked  her  to  eternal  rest. 

Then  softly,  softly,  down  to  sleep, 

Lay  her  where  these  white  blossoms  grow, 

And  where  the  Sabbath  silence  deep 
Is  broken,  by  no  sound  of  woe  ;  — 

Where  near  her,  the  long  summer  through. 
Will  sing  this  gently  lulling  stream ; 

'T  is  the  first  rest  she  ever  knew 
Haunted  by  no  unquiet  dream. 


AT   THE   WATER'S  EDGE. 

There  are  little  innocent  ones, 
And  their  love  is  wondrous  strong, 

Clinging  about  her  neck, 

But  they  may  not  keep  her  long. 

Father!  give  her  strength 

To  loosen  their  grasp  apart. 
And  to  fold  her  empty  hands 

Calmly  over  her  heart. 

And  if  the  mists  of  doubt 

Fearfully  rise  and  climb 
Up  from  that  river  that  rolls 

Close  by  the  shore  of  time, — 

Suddenly  rend  it  away. 

Holy  and  Merciful  One ! 
As  the  veil  of  the  temple  was  rent. 

When  the  mission  of  Christ  was  done. 

So  she  can  see  the  clime 

Where  the  jasper  walls  begin. 

And  the  pearl  gates,  half  unclosed, 
Ready  to  shut  her  in. 


DEAD.  413 

So  she  can  see  the  saints, 

As  they  beckon  with  shining  hand, 

Leaning  over  the  towers, 
Waiting  to  see  her  land. 

Saviour  !  we  wait  thy  aid, 

For  our  human  aid  were  vain  ; 
We  have  gone  to  the  water's  edge, 

And  must  turn  to  the  world  again. 

For  she  stands  where  the  waves  of  death 

Fearfully  surge  and  beat. 
And  the  rock  of  the  shore  of  life 

Is  shelving  under  her  feet. 


DEAD. 


Dead  !  yet  there  comes  no  shriek,  no  tear,  — 

My  agony  is  dumb ; 
I  've  thought,  and  feared,  and  known  so  long 

That  such  an  hour  must  come : 

For  when  her  once  sweet  household  cares 

Grew  wearier  every  day, 
And,  dropping  from  her  listless  hand, 

Her  work  was  put  away, 

I  knew  that  all  her  tasks  were  done. 
And,  though  I  wept  and  prayed, 

I  always  thought  of  her  as  one 
For  whom  the  shroud  is  made. 

She  talked  of  growing  strong  and  well. 

To  soothe  our  parting  pain  : 
I  knew  it  would  be  well  with  her 

Before  we  met  again ;  — 

I  knew  upon  that  lonesome  hill, 

Where  winter  now  is  drear, 
They  'd  have  to  make  another  grave 

Before  another  year. 


414  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY, 

I  hope  that  they  will  dig  it  there : 

I  would  not  have  it  made 
Between  the  graves  where  strangers  sleep, 

Under  the  cypress  shade. 

I  'd  have  it  where  our  sisters  gone 

Are  sleeping  side  by  side, 
And  where  we  weeping  orphans  laid 

Our  mother  when  she  died. 

There,  too,  with  beauty  scarcely  dimmed, 

And  curls  of  shining  gold, 
We  covered  little  Ellie's  face, 

And  hid  it  in  the  mould. 

So  bring  her  there,  and  when  they  rise 

Who  in  the  dust  have  lain. 
She  '11  see  her  little  baby  wake, 

And  take  him  up  again. 


THE   WATCHER'S   STOEY. 

She  has  slept  since  first  the  firelight 

Mingled  with  the  sun's  last  ray,  — 
If  she  lives  till  after  midnight 

She  may  see  another  day  ;  — 
Though  she  then  could  only  number 

A  few  weary  hours,  at  best. 
And  't  were  better  if  her  slumber 

Could  be  deepened  into  rest. 

When  about  my  neck,  all  night  through. 

White  arms,  softly  dimpled,  lay. 
Then  her  face  had  not  a  shadow 

That  I  could  not  kiss  away : 
And  I  knew  the  simple  measure 

Of  her  little  hopes  and  fears, 
Shared  in  all  her  childish  pleasure, 

Pitied  all  her  childish  fears. 
But  the  maiden's  deeper  yearning 

Taught  her  maidenhood's  disguise. 


THE    WATCHER'S   STORY.  415 

When  a  tenderer  light  came  burning 

In  the  soft  depths  of  her  eyes. 
Then  she  wandered  down  the  meadows, 

Like  some  restless  woodland  elf, 
Or  sat  hidden  deep  in  shadows, 

Singing  softly  to  herself, 
Or  repeated  dreams  elysian 

From  some  poet's  touching  strain, 
As  some  vague  and  nameless  vision 

Were  half-formed  within  the  brain. 
I  had  counselled,  led,  reproved  her,  — 

Now  the  time  for  these  was  o'er. 
From  a  baby  I  had  loved  her. 

She  could  be  a  child  no  more. 

Then  she  grew  a  listless  weeper, 

Scarce  her  lip  might  lightly  speak. 
And  the  crimson  glow  was  deeper 

In  the  white  snow  of  her  cheek. 
And  sometimes,  at  midnight  waking, 

I  have  heard  her  bitter  sighs, 
And  have  seen  the  tear-drops  breaking 

Through  the  closed  lids  of  her  eyes. 
Sometimes,  like  a  shaken  blossom, 

Moved  her  heart  with  visions  sweet ; 
With  my  hand  upon  her  bosom, 

I  could  feel  it  beat,  and  beat. 
While  her  young  face  down  the  meadows 

Kept  in  childhood's  pleasant  track, 
I  could  kiss  off  all  the  shadows, 

Other  lips  had  kissed  them  back ! 
Oftener  then  the  tear-dews  pearly 

Dropped  upon  her  soft  white  cheek. 
Sorrow  came  to  her  so  early. 

And  her  womanhood  was  weak. 
Life  grew  weary,  very  weary : 

I  had  trembled,  knowing  well 
Evermore  it  must  be  dreary. 

When  the  first  great  shadow  fell. 
It  had  fallen,  —  the  old,  sad  story, 

Hope  deferred,  and  wearying  doubt ; 
From  her  youth's  first  crown  of  glory 

All  the  roses  had  dropped  out. 


416  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY, 

Once,  when  husbandmen  were  bearing 

To  their  barns  the  ripened  ear, 
And  that  sorrow  had  been  wearing 

On  her  mortal  life  a  year ; 
As  she  sat  with  me  at  evening, 

Looking  earnestly  without, 
Still  half  hopeful,  and  half  yielding 
'  To  the  bitterness  of  doubt ; 

Anxiously  towards  me  leaning, 

Breaking  off  a  lonesome  tune, 
She  asked,  with  deepest  meaning, 

If  the  year  had  worn  to  June. 
Said  I,  roses  lately  blooming 

Have  all  faded  from  their  prime ; 
And  she  answered,  He  is  coming ! 

'T  is  the  season,  't  is  the  time  ! 

Then  she  looked  adown  the  valley 

Towards  the  pleasant  fields  in  sight, 
•    Where  the  wheat  was  hanging  heavy 

And  the  rye  was  growing  white ; 
And  she  said,  with  full  heart  beating, 

And  with  earnest,  trembling  tone, 
"  If  to-night  should  be  our  meeting, 

Let  me  see  him  first  alone." 

So  with  trust  still  unabated. 

With  affection  deep  and  true, 
She  watched,  and  hoped,  and  waited. 

All  the  lonesome  summer  through. 
Till  the  autumn  wind  blew  dreary ; 

Then  she  almost  ceased  to  smile. 
And  her  spirit  grew  more  weary 

Of  its  burden  all  the  while. 
I  remember  well  of  sharing 

The  last  watch  she  ever  kept. 
Till  she  turned  away  despairing. 

Saying  sadly  while  she  wept :  — 

"  Shut  the  window  !  when  't  is  lifted 
I  can  feel  the  cheerless  rain. 

And  the  yellow  leaves  are  drifted 
O'er  me,  through  the  open  pane. 


THE    WATCHER'S  STORY.  417 

Heavy  shadows,  creeping  nigher, 

Darken  over  all  the  walk  ; 
Let  us  sit  beside  the  fire, 

Where  we  used  to  sit  and  talk. 
Close  the  shutter,  through  the  gloaming 

My  poor  eyes  can  see  no  more, 
And  if  any  one  is  coming 

I  shall  hear  them  at  the  door. 

"  0  my  friend,  but  speak,  and  cheer  me,  — 

Speak  until  my  heart  grow  light ; 
What  if  he  were  very  near  me,  — 

What  if  he  should  come  to-night ! 
It  might  be  so,  —  ere  the  morrow 

He  might  sit  there  where  thou  art, 
And  the  weight  of  all  this  sorrow 

Be  uplifted  from  my  heart. 
Idle,  idle,  long  endurance 

Changes  hope  to  fear  and  doubt, 
Saying  oft  a  sweet  assurance 

Almost  wears  its  meaning  out. 
0,  my  thoughts  are  foolish  dreaming. 

Fancies  of  a  troubled  brain. 
Very  like  the  truth  in  seeming; 

But  he  will  not  come  again. 
Never  will  his  hand  caress  me, 

Pushing  back  this  faded  hair, 
Never  whisper  soft,  '  God  bless  thee  ! ' 

Half  in  fondness,  half  in  prayer. 
Well,  if  he  were  standing  near  me. 

Close  as  thou  hast  stood  to-day, 
Could  I  make  the  Father  hear  me. 

Could  I  turn  from  him  to  pray  ? 

"  0  my  friend,  whose  soul  was  never 

On  such  waves  of  passion  tost. 
Plead  for  Heaven's  sweet  mercy  ever, 

That  I  be  not  wholly  lost ! 
Talk  to  me  of  peaceful  bosoms. 

Never  touched  by  mortal  ills ; 
Talk  of  beds  of  fragrant  blossoms, 

Whitening  all  the  fadeless  hills. 


418  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY, 

Promises  of  sweet  Evangels, 
Blessed  hope  of  life  above, 

0  eternity,  0  angels  ! 

Turn  my  thoughts  from  human  love  ! " 


DEEAMS. 


Whate'er  before  my  sight  appears, 
One  vision  in  my  heart  is  borne,  — 

Two  sweet,  sad  faces,  wet  with  tears, 

Seen  through  the  dim,  gray  light  of  morn. 

And  half  o'ershadowing  them,  arise 

Thoughts,  which  are  never  lulled  to  sleep, 
Of  one,  whose  calm,  rebuking  eyes 
'  Are  sadder  that  they  do  not  weep. 

0  friend,  whose  lot  it  might  not  be 
To  tread,  with  me,  life's  path  of  ills ! 

0  friend,  who  yet  shalt  walk  with  me 
The  white  path  of  the  eternal  hills ! 

Gone  are  the  moments  when  we  planned 
Those  sweet,  but  unsubstantial  bowers. 

In  some  unknown  and  pleasant  land. 

Where  all  our  future  wound  through  flowers. 

Into  the  past  eternity 

Have  faded  all  those  hopes  and  schemes ; 
That  summer  island  in  the  sea 

Slept  only  in  our  sea  of  dreams. 

1  know  not  if  our  hope  was  sin. 
When  that  fair  structure  was  upbuilt ; 

But  this  I  know,  that  mine  has  been 
The  bitterest  recompense  of  guilt. 

And  the  wild  tempest  of  despair 
Still  sweeps  my  spirit  like  a  blast ; 

Tears,  penance,  agonizing  prayer, — 
Could  you  not  save  me  from  the  past ! 


PROPHECIES.  419 


PROPHECIES. 

An  urn  within  her  clasped  hands, 

Brimful  and  running  o'er  with  dew 
Spring  on  the  green  hills  smiling  stands, 
Or  walks  in  pleasant  valley -lands, 

Through  sprouting  grass  and  violets  blue. 
And  but  this  morn,  almost  before 

The  sunshine  came  its  leaves  to  gild. 
In  the  old  elm  that  shades  our  door. 

There  came  a  timid  bird  to  build. 

0  time  of  flowers  !     0  time  of  song  ! 

How  does  my  heart  rejoice  again ! 
For  pleasant  things  to  thee  belong ; 
And  desolate,  and  drear,  and  long. 

To  me  was  Winter's  lonesome  reign : 
Since  last  thou  trodd'st  the  vale  and  hill, 

And  nature  with  delight  was  rife, 
A  shadow  strange,  and  dark,  and  chill. 

Has  hung  above  my  house  of  life. 

But  now  I  see  its  blackness  drift 

Away,  away,  from  out  my  sky ; 
And,  as  its  heavy  folds  uplift, 
There  shines  upon  me,  through  the  rift, 

A  burning  star  of  prophecy  : 
My  heart  is  singing  with  the  birds. 

Life's  orb  has  passed  from  its  eclipse ; 
And  some  sweet  poet's  hopeful  words 

Are  always,  always,  on  my  lips. 

0  thou  who  lov'st  me  !  0  my  friend  ! 

Whate'er  thy  fears,  where'er  thou  art, 
As  these  soft  skies  above  thee  bend. 
Does  not  their  pleasant  sunshine  lend 

A  gleam  of  sunshine  to  thy  heart  ? 
Sweet  prophecies  through  all  the  day 

Within  my  bosom  softly  thrill. 
And,  while  the  night-time  wears  away, 

My  sleep  with  pleasant  visions  fill. 


420  POEMS   BY  PHCEBE    GARY, 

And  I  must  whisper  unto  thee, 

Thou,  who  hast  waited  long  in  vain ; 
Though  distant  still  the  day  may  be, 
It  shall  be  in  our  destiny 

To  tread  the  selfsame  path  again ; 
And  over  hills,  with  blossoms  white, 

Or  lingering  by  the  singing  streams, 
That  path  shall  wander  on  in  light, 

And  life  be  happier  than  our  dreams ! 


THE   POEM. 


I  AM  dreaming  o'er  a  poem 

Of  affection's  strength  sublime ; 

Loved,  because  that  once  I  read  it 
In  the  dear,  dear  olden  time. 

While  you  sat  and  praised  my  reading 
Of  the  poet's  touching  rhyme. 

And  how  often,  very  gently. 

Did  you  check  my  cadence,  when 

I  read  the  sweetest  verses 
Over  to  you  once  again  ! 

I  have  read  that  blessed  poem 
Many,  many  times  since  then  ! 

Then  you  softly  closed  the  volume. 
When  I  paused  at  the  last  line, 

While  your  eyes  said  sweeter  poems,  — 
Poems  that  were  more  divine  ; 

And  all  Hybla  sweets  were  clustered 
On  the  lips  that  dropped  to  mine. 

This  is  over  now,  all  over,  — 
And  't  is  better  thus  to  be ; 

Yet  I  often  sit  and  wonder 
Who  is  reading  soft  to  thee. 

And  if  any  voice  is  sweeter 

To  thy  heart  than  mine  would  be ! 


TO   ONE    WHO  SANG   OF  LOVE.  421 


TO   ONE   WHO   SANG   OF   LOVE. 

Thou  hast  sung  of  love's  confession 

Out  beneath  the  starry  skies, 
Of  the  rapture  of  the  moment 

When  tlie  soul  is  breathed  in  sighs, 
And  the  maiden's  trembling  trans^Jort 

As  she  blushingly  replies 
To  the  worship  of  a  lover. 

Breathed  from  speaking  lips  and  eyes. 

By  the  earnest  tender  pathos 

Of  thy  every  witching  line, 
Such  an  hour  of  bliss  ecstatic 

Has  surely  once  been  thine : 
And  I  would  that  Heaven  might  answer 

This  earnest  wish  of  mine. 
That  thy  star  of  love  and  beauty 

May  wane  not,  nor  decline. 

Listening  to  the  first  confession. 

Lingering  o'er  the  first  fond  kiss,  — 
What  an  age  of  bliss  is  crowded 

In  an  hour  of  life  like  this ! 
Surely  thine  at  such  a  moment 

Has  been  perfect  happiness, 
And  the  maiden,  the  fond  maiden, 

0,  I  cannot  guess  her  bliss ! 

Sometimes  to  my  heart  in  slumber 

Thought  so  like  the  truth  will  steal, 
That  the  pressure  of  sweet  kisses 

On  my  brow  I  almost  feel ; 
And  I  dream  fond  lijDS  -have  uttered 

What  they  might  no  more  conceal ; 
But  I  cannot,  no,  I  cannot. 

Make  such  blessed  visions  real. 


422  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY, 


AKCHIE. 

0  TO  be  back  in  the  beautiful  shadow 
Of  that  old  maple-tree  down  in  the  meadow, 
Watching  the  smiles  that  grew  dearer  and  dearer, 
Listening  to  lips  that  drew  nearer  and  nearer ! 
0  to  be  back  in  the  crimson-topped  clover, 
Sitting  again  with  my  Archie,  my  lover ! 

0  for  the  time  when  I  felt  his  caresses 
Smoothing  away  from  my  forehead  the  tresses, 
When  up  from  my  heart  to  my  cheek  went  the  blushes. 
As  he  said  that  my  voice  was  as  sweet  as  the  thrush's, - 
When  he  said  that  my  eyes  were  bewitchingly  jetty. 
And  I  told  him  't  was  only  my  love  made  them  pretty. 

Talk  not  of  maiden  reserve  and  of  duty. 

Or  hide  from  my  vision  such  wonderful  beauty ; 

Pulses  above  may  beat  calmly  and  even,  — 

We  have  been  fashioned  for  earth,  and  not  heaven ; 

Angels  are  perfect,  —  I  am  but  a  woman ; 

Saints  may  be  passionless,  —  Archie  is  human. 

Talk  not  of  heavenly,  down-dropping  blisses,  — 
Can  they  fall  on  the  brow  like  the  rain  of  soft  kisses  ? 
Preach  not  the  promise  of  priests  and  evangels,  — 
Love-crowned,  I  ask  not  the  crown  of  the  angels ; 
All  that  the  wall  of  pure  jasper  incloses 
Makes  not  less  lovely  the  white  bridal  roses. 

Tell  me  that  when  all  this  life  shall  be  over, 

1  shall  still  love  him,  and  he  be  my  lover, — 

That  in  meadows  far  sweeter  than  clover  or  heather 
My  Archie  and  I  shall  sit  always  together. 
Loving  eternally,  wed  ne'er  to  sever,  — 
Then  you  may  tell  me  of  heaven  forever ! 


MAIDEN  FEARS.  423 


MAIDEN   FEARS. 

He  knows  that  I  love  him ; 

0,  how  could  he  tell 
What  I  thought  I  would  keep 

In  my  bosom  so  well, 
By  guarding  each  action, 

Each,  word,  I  might  say  ! 
Yet  he  knows  that  I  love  him,  — 

O,  woe  to  the  day ! 

To  hide  it  I  tried 

By  each  innocent  art, 
And  thought  I  had  kept  it 

Down  deep  in  my  heart : 
Yet  vain  was  my  effort, 

My  pride  through  the  past, 
Since  my  weakness,  my  folly. 

Have  shown  it  at  last. 

'T  was  last  night  that  he  learned  it, 

When  down  in  the  grove 
He  whispered  me  something 

Of  hope  and  of  love ; 
'T  was  not  that  I  faltered, 

I  dared  not  to  speak,  — 
But  the  blood  mounted  up 

From  my  heart  to  my  cheek. 

Not  mine  was  the  fault 

That  such  weakness  was  shown,  — 
0,  he  should  not  have  kissed  me 

By  starlight  alone ! 
And  I  thought,  till  I  saw 

How  he  guessed  at  my  love, 
I  thought  that  the  shadows 

Were  deeper  above ! 

Nay,  thou  canst  not  console  me, 

My  hopes  are  undone  ; 
He  will  say  that  too  lightly 

My  heart  has  been  won ; 


424  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

And  this  spot  on  my  forehead 

Forever  will  burn, 
For  he  knows  that  I  love  him,  — 

He  will  not  return  ! 

He  will  say  't  was  unmaidly 

Thus  to  reveal 
What  I  might  not,  I  could  not, 

That  moment  conceal ; 
And  the  heart  he  has  won 

Will  cast  lightly  aside ;  — 
O,  I  would,  ere  he  knew  it, 

I  would  I  had  died ! 

0  thou  who  hast  never 

Been  faithless  to  me, 
,     Crushed,  bleeding,  and  broken 

My  heart  turns  to  thee  : 
Friend,  counsellor,  sister. 

Through  all  things  the  same 
Let  me  hide  in  thy  bosom 

My  blushes  of  shame  ! 


THE   UNGUAEDED   MOMENT. 

Yes,  my  lips  to-night  have  spoken 
Words  I  said  they  should  not  speak ; 

And  I  would  I  could  recall  them,  — 
Would  I  had  not  been  so  weak. 

0  that  one  unguarded  moment ! 
Were  it  mine  to  live  again, 

All  the  strength  of  its  temptation 
Would  appeal  to  me  in  vain. 

True,  my  lips  have  only  uttered 
What  is  ever  in  my  heart : 

1  am  happy  when  beside  him. 
Wretched  when  we  are  apart ; 

Though  I  listen  to  his  praises 
Always  longer  than  I  should, 

Yet  my  heart  can  never  hear  them 
Half  so  often  as  it  would ! 


NELLY.  425 

And  I  would  not,  could  not,  pain  him, 

Would  not  for  the  world  offend,  — 
I  would  have  him  know  I  like  him, 

As  a  brother,  as  a  friend ; 
But  I  meant  to  keep  one  secret 

In  my  bosom  always  hid, 
For  I  never  meant  to  tell  him 

That  I  loved  him,  —  but  I  did. 


NELLY. 


I  'm  glad  you  "  don't  love  him," 

I  really  did  fear 
(Nay,  frown  not  so  terribly, 

Nelly,  my  dear ;) 
His  voice  was  so  witching, 

His  eyes  were  so  bright,  , 

Though  you  did  not  yet  love  him, 

I  feared  that  you  might ! 

So  you  're  candid,  now,  Nelly, 

You  're  telling  me  true, 
"  His  voice  never  sounded 

Bewitching  to  you." 
Yet  I  sometimes  have  thought. 

When  you  heard  his  soft  tone. 
That  a  little  more  tenderness 

Spoke  in  your  own. 

And  you  're  sure  you  don't  care,  now, 

My  dear  little  elf, 
"Who  else  he  talks  love  to. 

So  't  is  not  yourself." 
Sometimes  when  your  forehead 

Such  crimson  would  take, 
I  suspected  —  no  matter, 

I  've  made  a  mistake. 

Nay,  do  not  now,  Nelly, 

0,  do  not  be  mad ! 
Since  you  say  you  don't  love  him, 

It  makes  me  so  glad ; 


426  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Because  I  would  never 
Have  told  it,  you  see, 

But  honestly,  darling, 
He  's  talked  love  to  me ! 

Are  you  glad  he  has  done 

What  you  wished  him  to  do,  — 
That  he  talked  about  love 

To  another  than  you  ? 
Yes,  you  surely  must  feel 

Quite  a  sense  of  relief ;  — 
But  those  tears  are  not  joyous, 

That  sob  is  like  grief ! 

He  said  he  had  hidden  it 

Long  in  his  breast ;  — 
How  you  tremble  !  —  nay,  listen, 

I  '11  tell  you  the  rest. 
*  He  said,  just  as  true 

As  I  sit  here  alive. 
That  he  loved  you,  dear  Nelly,  — 

Aha !  you  revive ! 


BUENING  THE  LETTEES. 

I  SAID  that  they  were  valueless,  — 

I  'd  rather  have  them  not,  — 
All  that  since  made  them  precious 

Was,  or  should  have  been,  forgot ; 
I  would  do  it  very  willingly, 

And  not  because  I  ought,  — 
But  I  did  not,  somehow,  find  it 

Quite  so  easy  as  I  thought. 

One  was  full  of  pleasant  flattery ;  — 

I  do  not  think  I  'm  vain. 
And  yet  I  paused  a  moment 

To  read  it  once  again. 
One  repeated  dear,  old  phrases 

I  had  heard  a  thousand  times ; 
I  had  read  him  once  some  verses. 

And  another  praised  my  rhymes. 


A    LAMENT.  427 

One  was  just  exactly  like  him,  — 

Such  a  pretty  little  note  ! 
One  was  interspersed  with  poetry 

That  lovers  always  quote. 
I  don't  know  why  1  read  them 

Unless  't  was  just  to  know, 
Since  they  once  had  been  so  precious, 

What  had  ever  made  them  so. 

I  had  told  him  when  we  parted, 

To  think  no  more  of  me ; 
And  I  'm  sure  he  's  nothing  to  me,  — 

Indeed,  why  should  he  be  ? 
Yet  the  flame  sunk  down  to  ashes. 

And  I  sat  and  held  them  still ; 
But  I  said  that  I  would  burn  them,  — 

And,  some  other  time,  I  will ! 


A   LAMENT. 


Once  in  the  season  of  childhood's  joy, 
Dreaming  never  of  life's  great  ills, 

Hand  in  hand  with  a  happy  boy, 

I  walked  about  on  my  native  hills,  — 

Gathering  berries  ripe  and  fair, 
Pressing  them  oft  to  his  smiling  lip. 

Braiding  flowers  in  his  sunny  hair. 

And  letting  the  curls  through  my  fingers  slip. 

Watching  the  clouds  of  the  evening  pass 
Over  the  moon  in  her  home  of  blue ; 

Or  chasing  fireflies  over  the  grass. 

Till  our  feet  were  wet  with  the  summer  dew. 

Now  I  walk  on  the  hills  alone, 

Dreaming  never  of  hope  or  joy, 
And  over  a  dungeon's  floor  of  stone 

Sweep  the  curls  of  that  happy  boy. 


428  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

And  every  night  when  a  rose-hedge  springs 
Up  from  the  ashes  of  sunset's  pyre, 

And  the  eve-star,  folding  her  golden  wings, 
Drops  like  a  bird  in  the  leaves  of  fire,  — 

I  sit  and  think  how  he  entered  in, 
And  farther  and  farther,  every  time, 

Followed  the  downward  way  of  sin. 
Till  it  led  to  the  awful  gates  of  crime. 

I  sit  and  think,  till  my  great  despair 
Rises  up  like  a  mighty  wave, 

How  fast  the  locks  of  my  father's  hair 
Are  whitening  now  for  the  quiet  grave. 

But  never  reproach  on  my  lip  has  been, 
Never  one  moment  can  I  forget. 

Though  bound  in  prison  and  lost  in  sin, 
My  brother  once  is  my  brother  yet. 


THE   LULLABY. 

Through  the  open  summer  lattice. 
Half  revealed  and  half  in  shade. 

Yesternight  I  saw  a  mortal 

Whose  remembrance  will  not  fade. 

Little  birds  their  heads  had  hidden 
Under  wings  of  gold  and  brown ; 

Lily  bells  and  luscious  blossoms 
Softly  had  been  folded  down ; 

Fountains  with  their  quiet  dropping 
Only  lulled  the  drowsy  bees  ; 

And  the  wind  was  lightly  going 
In  and  out  the  tops  of  trees ; 

But  the  pale  and  restless  creature  — 
Had  she  dreamed  too  much  before  ?  - 

Seemed  as  one  whom  sleep  would  visit 
Never,  never,  never  more. 


THE   LULLABY.  429 

Rocking  by  the  summer  lattice, 

Rocking  to  and  fro,  she  sung, 
O,  the  saddest,  saddest  music 

Ever  fell  from  mortal  tongae ! 

So  she  strove  to  hush  the  crying, 
Bitterer  that  't  was  faint  and  low, 

Of  the  little  baby  pressing 

Close  against  her  heart  of  woe. 

And  her  words  were  very  mournful, 

And  so  very,  very  faint ; 
She  was  keeping  doAvn  her  anguish, 

That  no  ear  might  hear  her  plaint. 

"  Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby  ; 

Go  to  sleep  and  sleep  till  morn ! 
Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby ; 

Would  that  thou  hadst  not  been  born  ! 

"  Mock  me  not  with  open  eyelids, 

For  thine  eyes  are  soft  and  blue ; 
While  in  mine  the  midnight  blackness 

Deepens,  looking  down  on  you. 

"  Time  shall  bind  about  your  forehead 

Sunny  hair  in  golden  bands  ; 
Tangle  not  my  raven  tresses 

With  your  soft  and  clinging  hands ! 

"  Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby ; 

O,  how  long  the  watches  seem ! 
Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby  ; 

Dream  and  smile,  and  smile  and  dream ! 

"  0  the  sad  eyes  of  my  mother ! 

0  my  brother,  proud  and  brave ! 
0  the  white  hair  of  my  father. 

Drooping  sadly  toward  the  grave ! 

"  0  my  sister,  pure  as  heaven, 

Here  thy  head  in  sleep  has  lain ! 
ISTever  on  this  wretched  bosom 

Canst  thou  pillow  it  again  ! 


430  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

"  Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby ; 

Live  I  only  for  thy  sake  ! 
Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby  ; 

Sleep,  and  dream,  and  never  wake  ! " 


LEFT   ALONE. 

She  ^s  left  me  here  alone  again : 

'T  will  be  a  weary  lot. 
Through  all  this  cheerless  winter  time 

To  live  where  she  is  not ; 
To  sit,  where  once  we  used  to  sit. 

With  smileless  lip  and  dumb  ; 
To  count  the  moments  since  she  went, 

And  know  not  when  she  '11  come ! 

We  talked  through  all  the  summer  time, 

We  'd  talked  through  all  the  spring, 
Of  how  upon  the  winter  hearth 

We  'd  make  a  pleasant  ring ; 
Of  how  with  loving  words  and  looks 

The  time  should  all  be  sped ;  — 
The  firelight's  glow  is  mournful  now, 

The  books  are  all  unread. 

We  never  were  together  long. 

We  have  not  been  so  blest ; 
I  might  have  known  this  hope  of  ours 

Would  perish  like  the  rest : 
And  half  I  trembled  all  the  while, 

And  feared  it  would  be  so ;  — 
The  hand  of  fate  would  press  me  back 

From  where  her  feet  must  go. 

If  there  shall  ever  be  a  time. 

When,  as  in  days  that  were, 
My  soul  can  whisj^er  all  its  dreams 

And  all  its  thoughts  to  her,  — 
When  I  can  share  her  heart's  sweet  hopes, 

Or  soothe  its  bitter  pain,  — 
I  would  the  hours  were  past  till  then, 

And  that  were  come  again  ! 


ONE   SHALL   BE    TAKEN.  431 


THE   RETROSPECT. 

As  one  who  sees  life's  hopes  have  end, 

And  cannot  hush  the  bitter  cry, 
Thou  weep'st  for  that  lost  vale,  my  friend, 

Where  childhood's  pleasant  places  lie; 
And  looking  down  the  sloping  track 

Where  now  our  lonesome  steps  are  told, 
Wouldst  softly  roll  the  seasons  back, 

And  leave  us  children  as  of  old. 

Nay,  weave  sweet  fancies  as  you  will. 

Yet  what  is  childish  happiness 
To  such  great  rapture  as  can  fill 

The  heart  of  womanhood  with  bliss  ? 
And  though  the  trials  which  years  must  bring 

Have  come,  and  left  thee  what  thou  art. 
Think  what  a  great  and  wondrous  thing 

Is  victory  o'er  the  human  heart ! 

Life's  sparkling  wine  for  us  is  dim. 

Only  the  bitter  drops  remain ; 
Yet  for  the  brightness  on  the  brim, 

Who  would  not  drink  the  draught  of  pain  ? 
And  not  in  even  ways,  my  friend. 

Attains  the  soul  to  regions  higher ; 
If  step  by  step  our  feet  ascend, 

Their  path  must  be  a  path  of  fire ! 


ONE   SHALL   BE   TAKEK 

Dear  friend,  whose  presence  always  made 

Even  the  dreariest  night-time  glad,  — 
Whose  lengthening  absence  darkens  o'er 

The  little  sunshine  that  I  had,  — 
My  heart  is  sad  for  thee  to-night. 

And  every  wretched  thought  of  mine 
Reaches  across  the  lonesome  hills, 

That  lie  between  my  home  and  thine. 


432  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

0  woods,  wherein  our  childish  feet, 

Gathering  the  summer  blossoms,  strayed ! 
0  meadows  white  with  clover-blooms  ! 

0  soft,  green  hollows,  where  we  played ! 
Can  you  not  cool  that  aching  brow. 

With  all  your  shadows  and  your  dew  j 
And  charm  the  slow  and  languid  step 

Back  to  the  joyous  life  it  knew? 

Most  loved,  most  cherished,  since  that  hour 

When,  as  she  blest  thee  o'er  and  o'er, 
Our  mother  put  thee  from  her  arms, 

To  feel  thy  kisses  never  more ; 
And  i,  that  scarce  were  missed,  am  spared, 

While  o'er  thy  way  the  shadow  lies. 
Infinite  Mercy  surely  knew 

Thou  wert  the  fittest  for  the  skies ! 


THE   BROTHERS. 

We  had  no  home,  we  only  had 

A  shelter  for  our  head : 
How  poor  we  were,  how  scantily 

We  all  were  clothed  and  fed  ! 
But  though  a  wretched  little  child, 

I  know  not  why  or  how, 
I  did  not  feel  it  half  so  much 

As  I  can  feel  it  now ! 

When  mother  sat  at  night  and  sewed, 

My  rest  was  calm  and  deep ; 
I  did  not  know  that  she  was  tired, 

Or  that  she  needed  sleep. 
She  wrapped  the  covering  round  our  bed, 

In  many  an  ample  fold ; 
She  had  not  half  so  much  herself 

To  keep  her  from  the  cold. 

I  know  it  now,  I  know  it  all,  — 
They  knew  it  then  above,  — 


REMORSE.  433 

Her  life  of  patient  sacrifice, 

And  never-tiring  love. 
I  know,  for  then  her  tasks  seemed  done,  — 

We  all  were  grown  beside,  — 
How  glad  she  must  have  been  to  go, 

After  the  baby  died ! 

I  do  not  care  to  deck  me  now 

With  costly  robe  or  gaud,  — 
My  mother  dressed  so  plain  at  home. 

And  never  went  abroad. 
I  do  not  even  want  a  shroud 

Of  linen,  white  and  pure,  — 
They  made  our  little  baby  one 

That  was  so  coarse  and  poor. 

I  had  another  brother  then, 

I  prayed  that  God  would  save ; 
I  knew  not  life  had  darker  dooms 

Than  lying  in  the  grave. 
I  did  not  know,  when  o'er  the  dead 

So  bitterly  I  cried, 
I  'd  live  to  wish  a  thousand  times 

The  other,  too,  had  died. 


KEMOESE. 


0  SWEETEST  friend  I  ever  had. 

How  sinks  my  heavy  heart  to  know 

That  life,  which  was  so  bright  for  thee, 

Has  lost  its  sunshine  and  its  glow ! 

1  cannot  think  of  thee  as  one 
Sighing  for  calm  repose  in  vain ; 

Nor  of  the  beauty  of  thy  smile, 
Faded  and  sadly  dim  with  pain. 

Thou  surely  shouldst  not  be  to-day 
Lying  upon  the  autumn  leaves. 

But  in  the  borderfields  of  hope, 
Binding  the  blossoms  into  sheaves. 


434  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

For,  with  a  shadow  on  thy  way, 
The  sunshine  of  my  life  is  o'er, 

And  flowery  dell  and  fresh  green  holt 
Can  charm  my  footsteps  nevermore  ! 

And  if  I  have  not  always  seen 

The  beauty  of  thy  deeds  aright,  — 

If  I  have  failed  to  make  thy  path 
As  smooth  and  even  as  I  might,  — 

Hot  thine  the  fault,  but  mine  the  sin, 
And  I  have  felt  its  heaviest  curse 

Fall  on  the  heart  that  aches  to-day. 
With  vain  repentance  and  remorse,  — 

A  heart  that  lifts  its  cry  to  thee. 
Above  this  wild  and  awful  blast. 

That  sweeping  from  the  hills  of  home. 
Brings  bitterest  memories  of  the  past. 

O,  sweet  forgiveness,  from  thy  love. 
Send  to  me  o'er  the  waste  between ; 

Not  as  thou  hop'st  to  be  forgiven. 
For  thou  hast  never  bowed  to  sin. 

Pure  as  thy  light  of  life  was  given. 
Thou  still  hast  kept  its  steady  flame ; 

And  the  chaste  garment  of  thy  soul 
Is  white  and  spotless  as  it  came. 


PEOPHECY. 


No  great  sea  lifts  its  angry  waves 

Between  me  and  the  friend  most  dear, 

And  over  all  our  household  graves 
The  grass  has  grown  for  many  a  year. 

With  all  that  makes  the  heart  rejoice, 
The  days  of  summer  go  and  come ; 

No  feeble  step,  no  failing  voice. 
Saddens  the  chambers  of  our  home. 


THE  DREAMER.  435 

Yet,  though  I  know,  and  feel,  and  see, 
God's  blessings  all  about  my  way, 

The  burden  of  sad  prophecy 
Lies  heavy  on  my  soul  to-day. 

These  awful  words  of  destiny 

Are  sounding  in  my  heart  and  brain: 

"Not  an  unbroken  family 

Shall  summer  find  us  here  again ! " 

0  God !  if  this  indeed  be  so, 

Whose  pillow  then  shall  be  unprest  ? 

Whose  heart,  that  feels  life's  pleasant  glow, 
Shall  faint,  and  beat  itself  to  rest  ? 

Eternal  silence  makes  reply. 

We  may  not,  cannot,  know  our  doom ; 

No  voice  comes  downward  from  the  sky, 
No  voice  comes  upward  from  the  tomb. 

Yet  this  I  would  not  ask  in  vain : 

Hide  from  my  wretched  eyes  the  day 

When  by  our  household  graves  again 
The  turf  is  lightly  put  away  ! 

First  from  our  home,  though  all  descend 

At  last  to  that  one  place  of  rest, 
0  solemn  Earth  !     0  mighty  Friend ! 

Take  me  and  hide  me  in  thy  breast ! 


THE   DREAMER. 

Blow  life's  most  fearful  tempest,  blow. 
And  make  the  midnight  wild  and  rough  ; 

My  soul  shall  battle  with  you  now,  — 
I  've  been  a  dreamer  long  enough ! 

Open,  0  sea,  a  darker  path. 

Dash  to  my  lips  the  angry  spray ; 

The  tenth  wave  of  thy  fiercest  wrath 
Were  nothing  to  my  strength  to-day  ! 


436  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

Though  floating  onward  listlessly 
When  pleasant  breezes  softly  blew, 

My  spirit  with  the  adverse  sea 

Shall  rise,  and  gather  strength  anew. 

Wake,  soul  of  mine,  and  be  thou  strong ; 

Keep  down  thy  weakness,  human  heart ; 
Thou  hast  unnerved  my  arm  too  long, 

0  foolish  dreamer  that  thou  art ! 

For  I  have  sat  and  mused  for  hours 
Of  havens  that  I  yet  should  see, 

Of  winding  paths,  of  pleasant  flowers, 
And  summer  islands  in  the  sea,  — 

Forgetful  of  the  storms  that  come, 
Of  winds  that  dig  the  ocean  grave, 

And  sharp  reefs  hidden  by  the  foam 

That  drifts  like  blossoms  on  the  wave, — 

Forgetful,  too,  that  he  who  guides 
Must  have  a  firm  and  steadfast  hand, 

If  e'er  his  vessel  safely  rides 

Through  storm  and  breaker  to  the  land,  — 

Idly  and  listless  drifting  on. 
Feeding  my  fancy  all  the  while. 

As  lovesick  dreamers  feed  upon 
The  honeyed  sweetness  of  a  smile. 

Fool  that  I  was,  —  ay  !  Folly's  mock,  — 
To  think  not,  in  those  pleasant  hours, 

How  barks  have  foundered  on  the  rock, 
And  drifted  past  tlie  isles  of  flowers ! 

Yet  well  it  were,  if,  roused  to  feel, 

1  yet  avert  such  fearful  fate,  — 
The  quick,  sharp  grating  of  the  keel 

Had  been  a  warning  all  too  late. 

But  courage  still ;  for  whether  now 
Or  rough  or  smooth  life's  ocean  seems, 

To-day  my  soul  records  her  vow, 
Hereafter  I  am  done  with  dreams ! 


THE   CONSECRATION.  437 


THE   CONSECRATIOK 

O  SOUL,  that  must  survive  that  hour 

When  heart  shall  fail  and  flesh  decay ! 
God,  angels,  men,  are  witnesses 

Of  vows  which  tliou  hast  made  to-day. 
What  solemn  fears  this  hour  are  born, 

What  joyful  hopes  this  hour  are  given  ! 
Thought  reaches  down  from  heaven  to  hell, 

And  up  from  farthest  hell  to  heaven. 

Before  my  fearful  vision  "pass 

Those  star-like  souls,  grown  darkly  dim,  — 
The  sea  of  mingled  glass  and  fire, 

The  saints  and  priests  with  conquering  hymn. 
0  God !  shall  I  go  down  with  those. 

Wandering  through  blackness  from  their  place, 
Or  up  with  the  redeemed  and  saved. 

Who  stand  before  their  Father's  face  ? 

For  now  my  eyes  have  seen  the  truth, 

This  is  thy  sure  and  just  decree: 
"  If  I  shall  turn  again  to  sin. 

There  is  no  sacrifice  for  me ; " 
And  the  baptismal  touch,  which  lay 

So  lightly  on  the  brow  beneath, 
Shall  be  omnipotent  in  power. 

To  press  me  surely  down  to  death. 

Its  seal  shall  be  a  diadem, 

To  shine  amid  the  angel  choir. 
Or  on  my  forehead  burn  in  hell. 

An  everlasting  crown  of  fire ; 
And  all  who  hear  my  vows  to-day 

Shall  hear  my  final  sentence  read  : 
God,  angels,  men,  are  witnesses 

At  the  great  judgment  of  the  dead. 


438  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 


DRAWING  WATER. 

I  HAD  drunk,  with  lip  un sated, 

Where  the  founts  of  pleasure  burst ; 

I  had  hewn  out  broken  cisterns, 

And  they  mocked  my  spirit's  thirst : 

And  I  said,  life  is  a  desert. 

Hot,  and  measureless,  and  dry ; 

And  God  will  not  give  me  water. 
Though  I  pray,  and  faint,  and  die. 

Spoke  there  then  a  friend  and  brother, 
"  Rise,  and  roll  the  stone  away  ; 

There  are  founts  of  life  upspringing 
In  thy  pathway  every  day." 

Then  I  said  my  heart  was  sinful, 
Very  sinful  was  my  speech ; 

All  the  wells  of  God's  salvation 
Are  too  deep  for  me  to  reach. 

And  he  answered,  "  Rise  and  labor,  — 
Doubt  and  idleness  is  death  ; 

Shape  thee  out  a  goodly  vessel 

With  the  strong  hands  of  thy  faith." 

So  I  wrought  and  shaped  the  vessel, 
Then  knelt  lowly,  humbly  there, 

And  I  drew  up  living  water 

With  the  golden  chain  of  prayer. 


SOLEMNITY   OF   LIFE. 

Whether  are  cast  our  destinies 

In  peaceful  ways,  or  ways  of  strife  ; 

A  solemn  thing  to  us  it  is. 
This  mystery  of  human  life. 


SOLEMNITY  OF  LIFE.  439 

Solemn,  when  first,  unconscious,  dumb, 

Within  an  untried  world  we  stand, 
Immortal  beings  that  have  come 

Newly  from  God's  creating  hand. 

And  solemn,  even  as  't  is  fleet, 

The  time  when,  learning  childish  fears, 

We  cross,  with  scarcely  balanced  feet, 
The  threshold  of  our  mortal  years. 

'T  is  solemn,  when,  with  parting  smiles, 

We  leave  its  innocence  and  truth, 
To  learn  how  deeper  than  the  child's 

Are  all  the  loves  and  fears  of  youth. 

It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  snap 

The  cords  of  human  love  apart ; 
More  solemn  still  to  feel  them  wrap 

Their  wondrous  strength  about  the  heart. 

'T  is  solemn  to  have  ever  known 

The  pleadings  of  the  soul  unmoved,  — 

Solemn  to  feel  ourselves  alone ; 
More  solemn  still  to  be  beloved. 

It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  wear 

The  roses  of  the  bridal  wreath,  — 
Solemn  the  w^ords  we  utter  there. 

Of  faith  unchanging  until  death. 

Solemn  is  life,  when  God  unlocks 

The  fountain  in  the  soul  most  deep, — 

Solemn  the  heart-beat,  when  it  rocks 
A  young  immortal  to  its  sleep. 

'T  is  solemn  when  the  Power  above 
Darkens  our  being's  living  spark,  — 

Solemn  to  see  the  friends  we  love 

Going  downward  from  us  to  the  dark. 

O  human  life,  when  all  thy  woes 

And  all  thy  trials  are  struggled  through, 

What  can  eternity  disclose 

More  wondrous  solemn  than  we  knew ! 


440  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 


MY   BLESSINGS. 

Great  waves  of  plenty  rolling  up 
Their  golden  billows  to  our  feet, 

Fields  where  the  ungathered  rye  is  white, 
Or  heavy  with  the  yellow  wheat ; 

Wealth  surging  inward  from  the  sea, 
And  plenty  through  our  land  abroad, 

With  sunshine  resting  over  all, 
That  everlasting  smile  of  God ! 

For  these,  yet  not  for  these  alone. 
My  tongue  its  gratitude  would  say : 

All  the  great  blessings  of  my  life 
Are  present  in  my  thought  to-day. 

For  more  than  all  my  mortal  wants 

Have  been,  0  God,  thy  full  supplies ;  — 

Health,  shelter,  and  my  daily  bread. 
For  these  my  grateful  thanks  arise. 

For  ties  of  faith,  whose  wondrous  strength 

Time  nor  eternity  can  part ; 
For  all  the  words  of  love  that  fall 

Like  living  waters  on  my  heart ; 

For  even  that  fearful  strife,  where  sin 
Was  conquered  and  subdued  at  length, 

Temptations  met  and  overcome. 

Whereby  my  soul  has  gathered  strength ; 

For  all  the  warnings  that  have  come 

From  mortal  agony  or  death ; 
For  even  that  bitterest  storm  of  life. 

Which  drove  me  on  the  rock  of  faith. 

For  all  the  past  I  thank  thee,  God ! 

And  for  the  future  trust  in  thee, 
Whate'er  of  trial  or  blessing  yet, 

Asked  or  unasked,  thou  hast  for  me. 


SABBATH   THOUGHTS.  441 

Yet  only  this  one  boon  I  crave,  — 
After  life's  brief  and  fleeting  hour, 

Make  my  beloved  thy  beloved, 
And  keep  us  in  thy  day  of  power ! 


SABBATH   THOUGHTS. 

I  AM  sitting  all  the  while 
Looking  down  the  solemn  aisle. 
Toward  the  saints  and  martyrs  old, 
Standing  in  their  niches  cold,  — 
Toward  the  wings  of  cherubs  fair, 
Veiling  half  their  golden  hair. 
And  the  painted  light  that  falls 
Through  the  window  on  the  walls. 

I  can  see  the  revered  flow 

Of  soft  garments,  white  as  snow. 

And  the  shade  of  silver  hair 

Dropping  on  the  book  of  prayer. 

I  can  hear  the  litany, 

"  Miserable  sinners,  we  !  " 

And  the  organ  swelling  higher, 

And  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 

And  I  marvel  if  with  them. 

In  the  new  Jerusalem, 

I  shall  hear  the  sacred  choir 

Chant  with  flaming  tongues  of  fire ; 

If  I  e'er  shall  find  a  place 

With  the  ransomed,  saved  by  grace ; 

If  my  feet  shall  ever  tread 

Where  the  just  are  perfected  ? 

Not,  my  soul,  as  now  thou  art; 
Not  with  this  rebellious  heart ; 
Not  with  nature  unsubdued, 
Evil  overshadowing  good ; 
Not  while  I  for  pardon  seek 
With  a  faith  so  faint  and  weak ; 
Not  while  tempted  thus  to  sin, 
From  without  and  from  within ! 


442  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Thou  whom  love  did  once  compel 
Down  from  heaven  to  sleep  in  hell ; 
Thou  whose  mercy  purged  from  dross 
Even  the  thief  upon  the  cross, 
Save  me,  0  thou  bleeding  Lamb, 
Chief  of  sinners  though  I  am, 
When,  with  clouds  about  thee  furled, 
Thou  shalt  come  to  judge  the  world ! 


NEAEER   HOME. 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er,  — 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before  ;  — 

Nearer  my  Father's  house 

Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne. 
Nearer  the  jasper  sea ;  — 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  dim  and  unknown  stream 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dark  abysm; 
Closer  death  to  my  lips 

Presses  the  awful  chrysm. 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ; 

Strengthen  the  might  of  my  faith ; 
Let  me  feel  as  I  would  when  I  stand 

On  the  rock  of  the  shore  of  death,  - 


SOWING   SEED.  443 

Feel  as  I  would  when  my  feet 

Are  slipping  o'er  the  brink ; 
For  it  may  be  I  'm  nearer  home,  — 

Nearer  now  than  I  think. 


HYMN. 


God  of  the  Sabbath,  calm  and  still, 
Father,  in  whom  we  live  and  move. 

How  do  our  trembling  bosoms  thrill 
With  words  which  tell  us  of  thy  love ! 

Thine  heralds,  speaking  of  the  tomb, 
The  organ's  voice,  the  censer's  flame, 

The  solemn  minister's  shadowy  gloom. 
Awe  us,  and  make  us  fear  thy  name. 

The  earthquake,  opening  deep  its  graves. 
The  lightning,  running  down  the  sky, 

The  great  sea,  lifting  up  its  waves 
Speak  of  thine  awful  majesty  ! 

But  once  thou  cam  est  in  Eden's  prime, 
Lord  of  the  soul,  to  talk  with  men. 

And  in  the  cool  of  eventime 

Thou  seemest  with  us,  now  as  then. 

For  when  our  trembling  souls  draw  near. 
And  silence  keeps  the  earth  and  sea. 

Thou  speak' st,  with  no  interpreter 

To  stand  between  our  hearts  and  thee ! 


SOWING   SEED. 

Go  and  sow  beside  all  waters, 
In  the  morning  of  thy  youth, 

In  the  evening  scatter  broadcast 
Precious  seeds  of  living  truth. 


444  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

For  though  much  may  sink  and  perish 
In  the  rocky,  barren  mould, 

And  the  harvest  of  thy  labor 
May  be  less  than  thirty-fold, 

Let  thy  hand  be  not  withholden, 

Still  beside  all  waters  sow, 
For  thou  know'st  not  which  shall  prosper, 

Whether  this  or  that  will  grow, 

While  some  precious  portion,  scattered. 

Germinating,  taking  root. 
Shall  spring  up,  and  grow,  and  ripen 

Into  never-dying  fruit. 

Therefore,  sow  beside  all  waters, 
Trusting,  hoping,  toiling  on ; 

When  the  fields  are  white  for  harvest, 
God  will  send  his  angels  down. 

And  thy  soul  may  see  the  value 
Of  its  patient  morns  and  eves. 

When  the  everlasting  garner 

Shall  be  filled  with  precious  sheaves. 


THE   BAPTISM. 

From  the  waters  of  aflB.iction, 

From  her  baptism  of  dark  woe. 

With  her  sweet  eyes  very  mournful, 

'  And  her  forehead  like  the  snow. 

Came  she  up ;  and,  0,  how  many 
In  such  hours  of  trial  are  seen. 

When  they  faint  with  mortal  weakness. 
Knowing  not  whereon  to  lean ! 

With  her  face  upon  my  bosom, 
Said  she  then  in  accent  sad. 

As  she  wound  her  arms  about  me, 
I  was  all  the  friend  she  had. 


THE   BAPTISM.  445 

And  I  told  her  —  pushing  backward 

From  her  forehead  like  the  snow, 
All  her  tear-wet  tresses,  dripping 

With  that  baptism  of  dark  woe  — 

How,  in  all  that  great  affliction, 

Loving  hands  had  led  her  on, 
When  she  came  up  from  the  waters. 

Led  her  when  her  feet  went  down,  — 

And  that  only  the  good  Father, 

He  who  thus  her  faith  had  tried, 
Could  have  brought  her  through  the  billows 

Safely  to  the  other  side. 

And  I  told  her  how  life's  pilgrims 
Crossed  that  solemn  stream  beneath, 

To  a  brighter  pathway  leading. 
Up  the  living  hills  of  faith. 

Lifting  upward  from  my  bosom 

Then  her  forehead  like  the  snow, 
I  will  weep,  she  said,  no  longer. 

Therefore  rise  and  let  us  go ! 

And,  as  one  who  walks  untroubled 

By  no  mortal  doubt  or  fear. 
Oft  we  heard  her  far  above  us. 

Singing  hymns  of  lofty  cheer,  — 

Till  with  feet  that  firmly  balanced 

On  faith's  summit-rock  she  trod. 
And  beheld  the  shining  bastions 

Of  the  city  of  our  God. 

Then  her  voice  was  tenderer,  holier, 

She  grew  gentler  all  the  while ; 
It  was  like  a  benediction 

But  to  see  her  patient  smile. 

As  she  walked  with  cheerful  spirit 

Where  her  daily  duties  led, 
"  Father,  keep  me  from  temptation," 

Was  the  only  prayer  she  said. 


446  POEMS  BY  PHOEBE   GARY, 

Often  made  she  earnest  pleading, 
As  she  went  from  us  apart, 

To  be  saved  through  all  her  lifetime 
From  the  weakness  of  her  heart. 

And  she  prayed  that  she  might  never, 

Never  in  her  trials  below. 
Bring  her  soul  before  the  altar, 

Wailing  in  unchastened  woe. 

So  her  hands  of  faith  were  strengthened, 
And  when  clouds  about  her  lay, 

From  her  bosom  all  the  darkness 
She  could  softly  put  away. 

Smilingly  she  went  unaided, 

When  we  would  have  led  her  on. 

Saying  always  to  our  pleading, 
Better  that  I  go  alone. 

Turned  she  from  the  faces  dearest 
When  her  feet  more  feebly  trod. 

That  she  might  not  then  be  tempted 
By  a  mortal  love  from  God. 

So  the  Father,  for  her  pleading, 

Kept  her  safe  through  all  life's  hours, 

And  her  path  went  brightly  upward 
To  eternity  through  flowers. 


THE  HOSTS   OF   THOUGHT. 

How  heavy  fall  the  evening  shades. 
Making  the  earth  more  dark  and  drear, 

As  to  its  sunset  sadly  fades 

This,  the  last  Sabbath  of  the  year ! 

Oft,  when  the  light  has  softly  burned 
Among  the  clouds,  as  day  was  done, 

I  Ve  watched  their  golden  furrows  turned 
By  the  red  plowshare  of  the  sun. 


THE   HOSTS   OF   THOUGHT.  447 

To-night,  no  track  of  billowy  gold 

Is  softly  slanting  down  the  skies; 
But  dull-gray  bastions,  dark  and  cold, 

Shut  all  the  glory  from  my  eyes. 

And  in  the  plain  that  lies  below, 

What  cheerless  prospect  meets  my  eye  I 

One  long  and  level  reach  of  snow, 
Stretching  to  meet  the  western  sky ! 

While  far  across  these  lonesome  vales, 

Like  a  lost  soul,  and  unconfined, 
Down  through  the  mountain  gorges  wails 

The  awful  spirit  of  the  wind. 

When,  yester-eve,  the  twilight  stilled, 

With  soft,  caressing  hand,  the  day, 
Upon  my  heart,  that  joyous  thrilled, 

A  sweet,  tumultuous  vision  lay. 

To-night,  in  sorrow's  arms  enwound, 

I  think  of  broken  faith  and  trust. 
And  tresses,  from  their  flowers  unbound. 

Hid  in  the  dimness  of  the  dust. 

And  hopes  that  took  their  heavenward  flight, 

As  fancy  lately  gave  them  birth. 
Slow  through  the  solemn  air  to-night 

Are  beating  backward  to  the  earth. 

0  memory,  if  the  shadowy  hand 

Lock  all  thy  death-crypts  close  and  fast, 

Call  not  ray  spirit  back  to  stand 
In  the  dark  chamber  of  the  past ! 

For  trembling  fear,  and  mortal  doubt, 

About  me  all  day  long  have  been  ; 
So  even  the  dreary  world  without 

Is  brighter  than  the  world  within. 

Pale  hosts  of  thought  before  me  start : 

0  for  that  needed  power  I  lack, 
To  guard  the  fortress  of  my  heart, 

And  press  their  awful  columns  back! 


448  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

O  for  a  soul  to  meet  their  gaze, 

And  grapple  fearless  with  its  woe ! 

As  the  wild  athlete,  of  old  days, 
In  the  embraces  of  the  foe ! 

Thoughts  of  the  many  lost  and  loved,  — 
Each  unfulfilled  and  noble  plan,  — 

Memories  of  Sabbaths  unimproved,  — 
Duty  undone  to  God  or  man ;  — 

They  come,  with  solemn,'  warning  frown, 
Like  ghosts  about  some  haunted  tent.; 

And  courage  silently  goes  down. 
Before  their  dreadful  armament. 

0  friend  of  mine,  in  years  agone, 

Where'er,  at  this  dark  hour,  thou  art, 

Why  hast  thou  left  me  here  alone, 
To  fight  the  battles  of  the  heart  ? 

Alone  ?     A  soft  eye's  tender  light 

Is  turned  to  meet  my  anxious  glance  ; 

^    And,  struggling  upward  from  the  night, 

My  soul  hath  broken  from  the  trance. 

Love  is  omnipotent  to  check 

Such  'wildering  fancies  of  the  brain ; 

A  soft  hand  trembles  on  my  neck, 
And  lo,  I  sit  with  hope  again ! 

Even  the  sky  no  longer  seems 
Like  a  dull  barrier,  built  afar  ; 

And  through  its  crumbling  wall  there  gleams 
The  sweet  flame  of  one  burning  star. 

The  winds,  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Came  down  the  dreary  plains  to  sweep, 

Back,  in  the  cavernous  hollow,  now 
Have  softly  sung  themselves  to  sleep. 

Come,  thou,  whose  love  no  waning  knows, 
And  put  thy  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

For  strong  in  faith  my  spirit  grows, 
Leaning  confidingly  on  thine. 


THE  BOOK   OF  POEMS.    ■  449 

And  in  the  calm,  or  in  the  strife, 

If  side  by  side  with  thee  I  move, 
Hereafter  1  will  live  a  life 

That  shall  not  shame  thy  trusting  love. 

Memory  and  fear,  with  all  their  powers, 
No  more  my  soul  shall  crush  or  bend; 

For  the  great  future  still  is  ours. 

And  thou  art  with  me,  0  my  friend ! 


THE   BOOK   OF   POEMS. 

On  the  pages  whose  rhymed  music 
So  oft  has  charmed  thine  ears, 

I  have  gazed  till  my  heart  is  filling 
With  memories  of  vanished  years ; 

And,  leaving  the  lines  of  the  poet, 
Has  sadly  turned  to  roam 

Away  to  that  beautiful  valley 

•  In  the  sunset  land  of  home ! 

0  land  of  the  greenest  pastures, 

0  land  of  the  coolest  streams, 
Shall  I  only  again  be  near  you 

In  the  shadowy  light  of  dreams  ? 
Shall  I  only  sit  in  visions 

By  the  hearth  in  the  lattice-pane. 
And  my  friend  of  the  past,  my  brother, 

Shall  w^e  meet  not  there  again  ? 

As  a  sweet  memorial  ever 

This  book  to  my  heart  will  be ; 
But  I  never  can  read  its  pages 

So  far  from  home  and  thee ; 
For  the  words  grow  dim  before  me, 

Or  tremble  on  my  lips, 
And  the  disc  of  life's  orb  of  beauty, 

Is  darkened  with  woe's  eclipse. 

So  forever  closed  and  clasped 
Shall  the  volume  lie  unread, 


450  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

As  might  in  some  ancient  cloister 
The  gift  of  the  saintly  dead, 

Till  our  hands  shall  open  its  pages 
Once  more  beneath  that  dome 

That  hangs  over  the  beautiful  valley. 
In  the  sunset  land  of  home ! 


TO   FRANK. 


'T  IS  three  years  and  something  over 
Since  I  looked  upon  you  last, 

But  I  only  think  about  you 
As  I  saw  you  in  the  past. 

And  when  memory  recalls  you, 

As  she  has  done  to-day, 
You  're  just  as  young,  and  just  as  small, 

As  when  you  went  away. 

I  can  see  you  hunt  for  flowers 
In  the  meadows  green  and  sweet. 

Or  go  wading  through  the  hollows, 
With  your  little  naked  feet  j  — 

Or  peeping  through  the  bushes 
That  hedged  the  garden  round, 

To  see  if  any  little  birds 

Were  in  the  nest  you  'd  found. 

And  I  know  how  in  the  clover. 

Where  the  bees  were  used  to  come. 

You  held  them  down  beneath  your  hat, 
To  hear  their  pleasant  hum. 

And  how  in  summer  evenings. 

Through  the  door-yard  wet  with  dew. 

The  watch-dog  led  you  many  a  chase,  — 
He  's  growing  older  too ! 


DA  WN.  451 

I  know  when  on  the  dear  old  porch 

We  coaxed  you  first  to  walk, 
And  treasured  every  word  you  said 

When  you  began  to  talk. 

We  asked  you  what  you  meant  to  be, 

And  laughed  at  your  replies, 
Because  you  said,  when  you  grew  up 

To  manhood,  you  'd  be  wise. 

And  may  you  pray  the  God  of  love, 

And  I  will  pray  him  too. 
To  make  you  wise  in  every  thing 

That  makes  man  good  and  true  ! 


DAWN. 


The  sunken  moon  was  down  an  hour  agone ;  — 
And  now  the  little  silver  cloud,  that  leant 
So  lovingly  above  her  as  she  went, 

Is  changing  with  the  touches  of  the  dawn : 

For  from  the  clasped  arms  of  the  sweet  night, 
Lo !  the  young  Dawn  has  gently  stolen  away 
And  stars,  that  late  burned  with  an  intense  ray, 

Fade  to  a  wannish,  melancholy  light. 

A  moment,  smiling  on  the  hills  she  stands. 
Parting  the  curtains  of  the  East  away ; 

Then  lightly,  with  her  white  caressing  hands. 
Touches  the  trembling  eyelids  of.  the  Day ; 

And,  leaning  o'er  his  couch  of  rosy  beams, 

Wooes  him  with  kisses  softly  from  his  dreams. 


452  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY, 

PARODIES. 

^I^iOC 

MAETHA   HOPKINS  * 

A  BALLAD    OF    INDIANA. 

From  the  kitchen,  Martha  Hopkins,  as  she  stands  there 

making  pies, 
Southward   looks,  along   the    turnpike,  with,  her  hand 

above  her  eyes ; 
Where,  along    the  distant  hill-side,  her  yearling  heifer 

feeds. 
And  a  little  grass  is  growing  in  a  mighty  sight  of  weeds. 

All  the  air  is  full  of  noises,  for  there  is  n't  any  school, 
And  boys,  with  turned-up  pantaloons,  are  wading  in  the 

pool; 
Blithely  frisk  unnumbered  chickens,  cackling,  for  they 

cannot  laugh  : 
Where  the  airy  summits  brighten,  nimbly  leaps  the  little 

calf. 

Gentle  eyes  of  Martha  Hopkins !  tell  me  wherefore  do 

ye  gaze 
On  the  ground  that  's  being  furrowed  for  the  planting  of 

the  maize  ? 
Tell  me  wherefore  down  the  valley  ye  have  traced  the 

turnpike's  way, 
Far  beyond  the  cattle-pasture,  and  the  brickyard,  with 

its  clay  ? 

Ah !  the  dog- wood  tree  may  blossom,  and  the  door-yard 

grass  may  shine. 
With  the  tears  of  amber  dropping  from  the  washing  on 

the  line, 
And  the  morning's  breath  of  balsam  lightly  brush  her 

freckled  cheek,  — 
Little  recketh  Martha  Hopkins  of  the  tales  of   spring 

they  speak. 

*  Parodied  from  Bayard  Taylor's  "  Manuela,  a  Ballad  of  California." 


MARTHA    HOPKINS.  453 

When  the  summer's  burning  solstice  on  the  scanty  har- 
vest glowed, 

She  had  watched  a  man  on  horseback  riding  down  the 
turnpike-road ; 

Many  times  she  saw  him  turning,  looking  backward  quite 
forlorn. 

Till  amid  her  tears  she  lost  him,  in  the  shadow  of  the  barn. 

Ere  the  supper-time  was  over,  he  had  passed  the  kiln  of 

brick. 
Crossed  the  rushing  Yellow  River,  and  had  forded  quite 

a  creek, 
And  his  flatboat  load  was  taken,  at  the  time  for  pork  and 

beans. 
With  the  traders  of  the  Wabash,  to  the  wharf  at  JSTew 

Orleans. 

Therefore  watches  Martha  Hopkins,  holding  in  her  hand 

the  pans, 
WTien  a  sound  of  distant  footsteps  seems  exactly  like  a 

man's ; 
Not  a  wind  the  stove-pipe  rattles,  nor  a  door  behind  her 

jars, 
Bat  she  seems  to  hear  the  rattle  of  his  letting  down  the 

bars. 

Often  sees   she   men   on   horseback,    coming   down   the 

turnpike   rough. 
But  they  come  not  as  John  Jackson,  she  can  see  it  well 

enough ; 
Well  she  knows  the  sober  trotting  of  the  sorrel  horse  he 

keeps. 
As  he  jogs  along  at  leisure,  with  his  head  down  like  a 

sheep's. 

She  would  know  him  ^mid  a  thousand,  by  his  home-made 

coat  and  vest ; 
By  his  socks,  which  were  blue  woollen,  such  as  farmers 

wear  out  west ; 
By  the  color  of  his  trousers,  and  his  saddle,  which  was 

spread, 
By  a  blanket  which  was  taken  for  that  purpose  from  the 

bed. 


454  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

None  like  he  the  yoke  of  hickory  on  the  unbroken  ox  can 

throw, 
None  amid  his  father's  cornfields  use  like  him  the  spade 

and  hoe ; 
And  at  all  the  apple-cuttings,  few  indeed  the  men  are 

seen 
That  can  dance  with  him  the  Polka,  touch  with  him  the 

violin. 

He  has  said  to  Martha  Hopkins,  and  she  thinks  she  hears 

him  now, 
For  she  knows  as  well  as  can  be,  that  he  meant  to  keep 

his  vow. 
When  the  buckeye  tree  has  blossomed,  and  your  uncle 

plants  his  corn. 
Shall  the  bells  of  Indiana  usher  in  the  wedding  morn. 

He  has  pictured  his  relations,  each  in  Sunday  hat  and 

gown. 
And  he  thinks  he  '11  get  a  carriage,  and  they  '11  spend  a 

day  in  town ; 
That  their  love  will  newly  kindle,  and  what  comfort  it 

will  give, 
To  sit  down  to  the  first  breakfast,  in  the  cabin  where 

they  '11  live. 

Tender  eyes  of  Martha  Hopkins !  what  has  got  you  in 

such  scrape  ? 
'T  is  a  tear  that  falls  to  glitter  on  the  ruffle  of  her  cape. 
Ah !  the  eye  of  love  may  brighten,  to  be  certain  what  it 

sees. 
One  man  looks  much  like  another,  when  half  hidden  by 

the  trees. 

But  her  eager  eyes  rekindle,  she  forgets  the  pies  and 

bread. 
As  she  sees  a  man  on  horseback,  round  the  corner  of  the 

shed. 
Now  tie  on  another  apron,  get  the  comb  and  smooth  your 

hair, 
'T  is  the  sorrel  horse  that  gallops,  't  is  John  Jackson's 

self  that 's  there  ! 


WORSER  MOMENTS.  455 


WORSER  MOMENTS  * 

That  fellow's  voice !  how  often  steals 

Its  cadence  o'er  my  lonely  days  ! 
Like  something  sent  on  wagon-wheels, 

Or  packed  in  an  unconscious  chaise. 
I  might  forget  the  words  he  said 

When  all  the  children  fret  and  cry, 
But  when  I  get  them  off  to  bed, 

His  gentle  tone  comes  stealing  by, 
And  years  of  matrimony  flee, 
And  leave  me  sitting  on  his  knee. 

The  times  he  came  to  court  a  spell, 

The  tender  things  he  said  to  me, 
Make  me  remember  mighty  well 

My  hopes  that  he  'd  propose  to  me. 
My  face  is  uglier,  and  perhaps 

Time  and  the  comb  have  thinned  my  hair. 
And  plain  and  common  are  the  caps 

And  dresses  that  I  have  to  wear ; 
But  memory  is  ever  yet 
With  all  that  fellow's  flatteries  writ. 

I  have  been  out  at  milking-time 

Beneath  a  dull  and  rainy  sky, 
When  in  the  barn  't  was  time  to  feed. 

And  calves  were  bawling  lustily,  — 
When  scattered  hay,  and  sheaves  of  oats. 

And  yellow  corn-ears,  sound  and  hard. 
And  all  that  makes  the  cattle  pass 

With  wilder  fleetness  through  the  yard, — 
When  all  was  hateful,  then  have  I, 

With  friends  who  had  to  help  me  milk, 
Talked  of  his  wife  most  spitefully. 

And  how  he  kept  her  dressed  in  silk ; 
And  when  the  cattle,  running  there. 

Threw  over  me  a  shower  of  mud. 
That  fellow's  voice  came  on  the  air, 

Like  the  light  chewing  of  the  cud. 
And  resting  near  some  speckled  cow, 

The  spirit  of  a  woman's  spite, 

*  Parodied  from  N.  P.  Willis's  "  Better  Moments." 


456  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    GARY. 

I  Ve  poured  a  low  and  fervent  vow 
To  make  him,  if  I  had  the  might, 
Live  all  his  lifetime  just  as  hard. 
And  milk  his  cows  in  such  a  yard. 

I  have  been  out  to  pick  up  wood, 

When  night  was  stealing  from  the  dawn, 
Before  the  fire  was  burning  good. 

Or  I  had  put  the  kettle  on 
The  little  stove,  —  when  babes  were  waking 

With  a  low  murmur  in  the  beds, 
And  melody  by  fits  was  breaking 

Above  their  little  yellow  heads,  — 
And  this  when  I  was  up  perhaps 
From  a  few  short  and  troubled  naps,  — 
And  when  the  sun  sprang  scorchingly 

And  freely  up,  and  made  us  stifle, 
And  fell  upon  each  hill  and  tree 

The  bullets  from  his  subtle  rifle,  — 
I  say  a  voice  has  thrilled  me  then. 

Hard  by  that  solemn  pile  of  wood. 
Or  creeping  from  the  silent  glen. 

Like  something  on  the  unfledged  brood, 
Hath  stricken  me,  and  I  have  pressed 

Close  in  ray  arms  my  load  of  chips. 
And  pouring  forth  the  hatefulest 

Of  words  that  ever  passed  my  lips, 
Have  felt  my  woman's  spirit  rush 

On  me,  as  on  that  milking  night, 
And,  yielding  to  the  blessed  gush 

Of  my  ungovernable  spite. 
Have  risen  up,  the  red,  the  old, 
Scolding  as  hard  as  I  could  scold. 


THE   ANNOYER.* 

"  Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever."  —  Shelley. 

Love  knoweth  everybody's  house, 

And  every  human  haunt. 
And  comes  unbidden  everywhere, 

Like  people  we  don't  want. 

*  Parodied  from  a  poem  by  N.  P.  Willis  "with  the  same  title  and  same  motto. 


THE   ANNOYER.  457 

The  turnpike-roads  and  little  creeks 

Are  written  with  love's  words, 
And  you  hear  his  voice  like  a  thousand  bricks 

In  the  lowing  of  the  herds. 

He  peeps  into  the  teamster's  heart, 

From  his  Buena  Vista'*s  rim. 
And  the  cracking  whips  of  many  men 

Can  never  frighten  him. 
He  '11  come  to  his  cart  in  the  weary  night, 

When  he  's  dreaming  of  his  craft ; 
And  he  '11  float  to  his  eye  in  the  morning  light 

Like  a  man  on  a  river  raft. 

He  hears  the  sound  of  the  cooper's  adze. 

And  makes  him,  too,  his  dupe. 
For  he  sighs  in  his  ear  from  the  shaving  pile, 

As  he  hammers  on  the  hoop. 
The  little  girl,  the  beardless  boy, 

The  men  that  walk  or  stand. 
He  will  get  them  all  in  his  mighty  arms, 

Like  the  grasp  of  your  very  hand. 

The  shoemaker  bangs  above  his  bench, 

And  ponders  his  shining  awl, 
For  love  is  under  the  lapstone  hid, 

And  a  spell  is  on  the  wall. 
It  heaves  the  sole  where  he  drives  the  pegs, 

And  speaks  in  every  blow, 
Till  the  last  is  dropped  from  his  crafty  hand 

And  his  foot  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  prints  which  the  shopmen  sell, 

And  intrudes  on  the  hatter's  trade, 
And  profanes  the  hostler's  stable-yard 

In  the  shape  of  the  chamber-maid. 
In  the  darkest  night  and  the  bright  daylight, 

Knowing  that  he  can  win, 
In  every  home  of  good-looking  folks 

Will  human  love  come  in. 


458  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 


SAMUEL   BROWN  * 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  dwelling  down  in  town, 
That  a  fellow  there  lived  whom  you  may  know, 

By  the  name  of  Samuel  Brown ; 
And  this  fellow  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  our  house  to  come  down. 

I  was  a  child,  and  he  was  a  child. 

In  that  dwelling  down  in  town, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Samuel  Brown, 
With  a  love  that  the  ladies  coveted 

Me  and  Samuel  Brown. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago. 

To  that  dwelling  down  in  town, 
A  girl  came  out  of  her  carriage,  courting 

My  beautiful  Samuel  Brown ;  — 
So  that  her  high-bred  kinsman  came  * 

And  bore  away  Samuel  Brown, 
And  shut  him  up  in  a  dwelling-house, 

In  a  street  quite  up  in  town. 

The  ladies  not  half  so  happy  up  there, 

Went  envying  me  and  Brown  ; 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason,  (as  all  men  know. 

In  this  dwelling  down  in  town), 
That  the  girl  came  out  of  the  carriage  by  night, 

Coquetting  and  getting  my  Samuel  Brown. 

But  our  love  is  more  artful  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  are  older  than  we,  — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we. 
And  neither  the  girls  that  are  living  above, 

Nor  the  girls  that  are  down  in  town. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Samuel  Brown. 

*  Parodied  from  Poe's  "  Annabel  Lee." 


GRANNY'S  HOUSE.  459 

For  the  morn  never  shines  without  bringing  me  lines 

From  my  beautiful  Samuel  Brown ; 
And  the  night  's  never  dark,  but  I  sit  in  the  park 

With  my  beautiful  Samuel  Brown. 
And  often  by  day,  I  walk  down  in  Broadway, 

With  ray  darling,  my  darling,  my  life  and  my  stay 

To  our  dwelling  down  in  town, 
To  our  house  in  the  street  down  town. 


GKANNY'S   HOUSE.* 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  ^t  is  early 

morn, 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the 

dinner-horn. 
'T  is  the  place,  and  all  about  it,  as  of  old,  the  rat  and 

mouse 
Very  loudly  squeak  and  nibble,  running  over  Granny's 

house ; — 
Granny's  house,  with  all  its  cupboards,  and  its  rooms  as 

neat  as  wax. 
And  its  chairs  of  wood  unpainted,  where  the  old  cats 

rubbed  their  backs. 
Many  a  night  from  yonder  garret  window,  ere  I  went  to 

rest. 
Did  I  see  the  cows  and  horses  come  in  slowly  from  the 

west; 
Many  a  night  I  saw  the  chickens,  flying  upward  through 

the  trees. 
Roosting  on  the  sleety  branches,  when  I  thought  their 

feet  would  freeze ; 
Here  about  the   garden  wandered,  nourishing  a  youth 

sublime 
With  the  beans,  and  sweet   potatoes,  and   the   melons 

which  were  prime ; 
When  the  pumpkin-vines  behind  me  with  their  precious 

fruit  reposed. 
When  I  clung  about  the  pear-tree,  for  the  promise  that  it 

closed, 

*  Parodied  from  Tennyson's  "  Locksley  Hall." 


460  POEMS   BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

When  I  dipt  into  the  dinner  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  pie,  and  all  the  dessert  that  would  be. 
In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's 

breast ; 
In  the  spring  the  noisy  pullet  gets  herself  another  nest ; 
In  the  spring  a  livelier  spirit  makes  the  ladies'  tongues 

more  glib ; 
In  the  spring  a  young  boy's  fancy  lightly  hatches  up  a 

fib. 
Then  her  cheek  was  plump  and  fatter  than  should  be  for 

one  so  old, 
And  she  eyed  my  every  motion,  with  a  mute  intent  to 

scold. 
And  I  said.  My  worthy  Granny,  now  I  speak  the  truth  to 

thee,  — 
Better  believe  it,  —  I  have  eaten  all  the  apples  from  one 

tree. 
On  her  kindling  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a 

light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flashing  in  the  northern 

night ; 
And  she  turned,  —  her  fist  was  shaken  at  the  coolness  of 

the  lie ; 
She  was  mad,  and  I  could  see  it,  by  the  snapping  of  her 

eye. 
Saying  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do 

thee  wrong,  — 
Saying,  "  I  shall  whip  you,  Sammy,  whipping,  I  shall  go 

it  strong ! " 
She  took  me  up  and  turned  me  pretty  roughly,  when 

she  'd  done. 
And  every  time  she  shook  me,  I  tried  to  jerk  and  run ; 
She  took  off  my  little  coat,  and  struck  again  with  all  her 

might. 
And  before  another  minute  I  was  free  and  out  of  sight. 
Many  a  morning,  just  to  tease  her,  did  I  tell  her  stories 

yet. 

Though  her  whisper  made  me  tingle,  when  she  told  me 

what  I  'd  get ; 
Many  an  evening  did  I  see  her  where  the  willow  sprouts 

grew  thick. 
And  I  rushed  away  from  Granny  at  the  touching  of  her 

stick. 


GRANNTS  HOUSE.  461 

0  my  Granny,  old  and  ugly,   0  my  Granny's  hateful 
deeds, 

0  the  empty,  empty  garret,  0  the  garden  gone  to  weeds, 
Grosser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  crosser  than  all  songs 

have  sung, 

1  was  puppet  to  your  threat,  and  servile  to  your  shrewish 

tongue. 
Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy,  having  seen  thy  whip 

decline 
On  a  boy  with  lower  shoulders,  and  a  narrower  back,  than 

mine  ? 
Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  din- 
ner-horn, — 
They  to  whom  my  Granny's  whippings  were  a  target  for 

their  scorn  ; 
Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  mouldered 

string  ? 
I  am  shamed  through  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  the 

mean  old  thing; 
Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  woman's  pleasure, 

woman's  spite, 
Nature  made  them  quicker  motions,  a  considerable  sight. 
Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  whippings  matched 

with  mine 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine. 
Here  at  least  when  I  was  little,  something.      0,  for  some 

retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  crowded  city  where  my  life  began  to  beat. 
Where  one  winter  fell  my  father,  slipping  off  a  keg  of 

lard; 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  my  case  was  pretty 

hard. 
Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit,  and  to  wander  far  and  fleet, 
On  from   farm-house  unto  farm-house   till  I  found  my 

Uncle  Pete, 
Larger  sheds  and  barns,  and  newer,  and  a  better  neigh- 
borhood. 
Greater  breadth  of  field  and  woodland,  and  an  orchard 

just  as  good. 
Never  comes  my  Granny,  never  cuts  her  willow  switches 

there ; 
Boys  are  safe  at  Uncle  Peter's,  I  '11  bet  you  what  you 

dare. 


462  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

Hangs  the  heavy  fruited  pear-tree :    you  niay  eat  just 

what  you  like ; 
'T  is  a  sort  of  little  Eden,  about  two  miles  off  the  pike. 
There,  methinks,  would  be  enjoyment,  more  than  being 

quite  so  near 
To  the  place  where  even  in  manhood  I  almost  shake  with 

fear. 
There  the  passions,  cramped  no  longer,  shall  have  scope 

and  breathing  space. 
I  will  'scape  that  savage  woman,  she  shall  never  rear  my 

race ; 
Iron-jointed,  supple-sinewed,  they  shall  dive  and  they 

shall  run ; 
She  has  caught  me  like  a  wild  goat,  but  she  shall  not 

catch  my  son. 
He  shall  whistle  to  the  dog,  and  get  the  books  from  off 

the  shelf, 
Not,  with  blinded  eyesight,  cutting  ugly  whips  to  whip 

himself. 
Fool  again,  the  dream  of  fancy !  no,  I  don't  believe  it 's 

bliss, 
But  I  'm  certain  Uncle  Peter's  is  a  better  place  than  this. 
Let  them  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  all  glo- 
rious gains. 
Like  the  horses  in  the  stables,  like  the  sheep  that  crop 

the  lanes ; 
Let  them  mate  with  dirty  cousins,  —  what  to  me  were 

style  or  rank, 
I  the  heir  of  twenty  acres,  and  some  money  in  the  bank  ? 
Not  in  vain  the  distance  beckons,  forward  let  us  urge  our 

load. 
Let  our  cart-wheels  spin  till  sundown,  ringing  down  the 

grooves  of  road ; 
Through  the  white  dust  of  the  turnpike  she  can't  see  to 

give  us  chase : 
Better  seven  years  at  uncle's,  than  fourteen  at  Granny's 

place. 
0,  I  see  the  blessed  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set ! 
If  we  once  get  in  the  wagon,  we  will  circumvent  her  yet. 
Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Granny's 

farm  : 
Not  for  me  she  '11  cut  the  willows,  not  at  me  she  '11  shake 

her  arm. 


THE   DAY  IS  DONE,  463 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath 
and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  —  guess  it  holds  a  thun- 
derbolt : 

Wish  't  would  fall  on  Granny's  house,  with  rain,  or  hail, 
or  lire,  or  snow. 

Let  me  get  my  horses  started  Uncle  Peteward,  and 
I  '11  go. 


THE   DAY   IS   DONE* 

The  day  is  done,  and  darkness 
From  the  wing  of  night  is  loosed, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  a  chicken  going  to  roost. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  baker 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  mist. 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 
That  I  cannot  well  resist. 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing ^ 

That  is  not  like  being  sick. 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  a  brick-bat  resembles  a  brick. 

Come,  get  for  me  some  supper,  — 

A  good  and  regular  meal, 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 

And  banish  the  pain  I  feel. 

Not  from  the  pastry  baker's, 
Not  from  the  shops  for  cake, 

I  would  n't  give  a  farthing 
For  all  that  they  can  make. 

For,  like  the  soup  at  dinner. 
Such  things  would  but  suggest 

Some  dishes  more  substantial. 
And  to-night  I  want  the  best. 

*  Parodied  from  Longfellow's  "  The  Day  is  Done." 


464  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

Go  to  some  honest  butcher, 
Whose  beef  is  fresh  and  nice 

As  any  they  have  in  the  city, 
And  get  a  liberal  slice. 

Such  things  through  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
For  sad  and  desperate  feelings 

Are  wonderful  remedies. 

They  have  an  astonishing  power 

To  aid  and  reinforce, 
And  come  like  the  "  Finallj^,  brethren,'^ 

That  follows  a  long  discourse. 

Then  get  me  a  tender  sirloin 
From  off  the  bench  or  hook. 

And  lend  to  its  sterling  goodness 
The'  science  of  the  cook. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  comfort, 
And  the  cares  with  which  it  begun 

Shall  fold  up  their  blankets  like  Indians, 
And  silently  cut  and  run. 


JOHN   THOMPSON'S   DAUGHTER.* 

A  FELLOW  near  Kentucky's  clime 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry, 

And  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  dime 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now,  who  would  cross  the  Ohio, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?  " 

"  0,  I  am  this  young  lady's  beau, 
And  she  John  Thompson's  daughter. 

"We  've  fled  before  her  father's  spite 

With  great  precipitation, 
And  should  he  find  us  here  to-night, 

I  'd  lose  my  reputation. 

*  Parodied  from  Campbell's  '*  Lord  TJllin's  Daughter." 


JOHN   THOMPSON'S  DAUGHTER.  465 

"They  've  missed  the  girl  and  purse  beside, 
His  horsemen  hard  have  pressed  me, 

And  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride. 
If  yet  they  shall  arrest  me  ?  " 

Out  spoke  the  boatman  then  in  time, 
"  You  shall  not  fail,  don't  fear  it  j 

I  '11  go,  not  for  your  silver  dime, 
But  for  your  manly  spirit. 

"  And  by  my  word,  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry ; 
For  though  a  storm  is  coming  on, 

I  '11  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  wind  more  fiercely  rose, 

The  boat  was  at  the  landing, 
And  with  the  drenching  rain  their  clothes 

Grew  wet  where  they  were  standing. 

But  still,  as  wilder  rose  the  wind. 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer. 
Just  back  a  piece  came  the  police, 

Their  tramping  sounded  nearer. 

"  0,  haste  thee,  haste  !  "  the  lady  cries, 

"  It 's  anything  but  funny ; 
I  '11  leave  the  light  of  loving  eyes. 

But  not  my  father's  money  !  " 

And  still  they  hurried  in  the  face 

Of  wind  and  rain  unsparing ; 
John  Thompson  reached  the  landing-place. 

His  wrath  was  turned  to  swearing. 

For  by  the  lightning's  angry  flash, 

His  child  he  did  discover ; 
One  lovely  hand  held  all  the  cash, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover ! 

"  Come  back,  come  back,"  he  cried  in  woe, 

Across  the  stormy  water ; 
"  But  leave  the  purse,  and  you  may  go. 

My  daughter,  0  my  daughter !  " 


466  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

'T  was  vain  ;  they  reached  the  other  shore, 
(Such  dooms  the  Fates  assign  us,) 

The  gold  he  piled  went  with  his  child, 
And  he  was  left  there,  minus. 


GIRLS   WERE  MADE  TO   MOURN* 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  everybody  shiver, 
One  evening  as  I  wandered  forth, 

Along  the  Wabash  River, 
I  spied  a  woman  past  her  prime. 

Yet  with  a  youthful  air. 
Her  face  was  covered  o'er  with  curls 

Of  well  selected  hair ! 


Young  woman,  whither  wanderest  thou  ? 

Began  the  prim  old  maid ; 
Are  visions  of  a  home  to  be, 

In  all  thy  dreams  displayed  ? 
Or  haply  wanting  but  a  mate. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth  with  me  to  mourn 

The  indifference  of  man ! 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  fields. 

Outspreading  far  and  wide. 
Where  thousands  by  their  own  hearth  sit, 

Or  in  their  carriage  ride,  — 
I  Ve  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 

Just  forty  times  return ; 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs. 

That  girls  were  made  to  mourn ! 

O  girls  !  when  in  your  early  years. 

How  prodigal  of  time ! 
Misspending  all  your  precious  hours. 

Your  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 

*  Parodied  from  Burns's  "Man  was  Made  to  Mourn." 


GIRLS    WERE  MADE   TO  MOURN.  467 

Thinking  to  wed  just  when  yon  please, 

From  beau  to  beau  you  turn, 
Whicli  tenfold  force  gives  nature's  law, 

That  girls  were  made  to  mourn ! 

Look  not  on  them  in  youthful  prime. 

Ere  life's  best  years  are  spent ! 
Man  will  be  gallant  to  them  then, 

And  give  encouragement ! 
But  see  them  when  they  cease  to  speak 

Of  each  birthday's  return ; 
Then  want  and  single-blessedness 

Show  girls  were  made  to  mourn  ! 

A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

By  husband's  hands  caressed, 
But  think  not  all  the  married  folks 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
For,  oh !  what  crowds,  whose  lords  are  out, 

That  stay  to  patch  and  darn. 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  girls  were  made  to  mourn ! 

Many  and  sharp  and  numerous  ills, 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn,  — 
Man's  cold  indifference  to  us 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn ! 

If  I  'm  designed  to  live  alone,  — 

By  nature's  law  designed,  — 
Why  was  this  constant  wish  to  wed 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

Man's  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  he  the  will  and  power 

To  make  me  for  him  mourn  ? 

See  yonder  young,  accomplished  girl, 
Whose  words  are  smooth  as  oil, 


468  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

Who  'd  marry  almost  any  one 
To  keep  her  hands  from  toil ; 

But  see,  the  lordly  gentleman 
Her  favors  don't  return, 

Unmindful  though  a  weeping  ma 
And  bankrupt  father  mourn  ! 

Yet  let  not  this,  my  hopeful  girl, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 
This  awful  view  of  woman's  fate 

Is  surely  not  the  best ! 
The  poor,  despised,  plain  old  maid 

Had  never  sure  iDeen  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  who  mourn  ! 

0  death !  the  poor  girl's  dearest  friend, 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  weary  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  to  rest ! 
The  young,  the  married,  fear  thy  blow 

From  hope  or  husbands  torn ; 
But  oh  !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

In  single  life  who  mourn ! 


TO   INEZ* 


Nay,  smile  not  at  my  garments  now; 

Alas  !  /  cannot  smile  again  : 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  dress,  and  haply  dress  so  plain. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  Why  should  I  be 
The  jest  of  every  foe  and  friend  ? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  see 

A  garb,  even  thou  must  fail  to  mend  ? 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honors  lost, 
That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state. 
And  fly  from  all  I  loved  the  most. 

*  Parodied  from  Byron's  "  To  Inez." 


TO   MARY.  469 

It  is  the  contrast  which  will  spring 

From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see  : 
To  me  no  garment  tailors  bring,  — 

Their  shops  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 

It  is  a  something  all  who  rub 

Would  know  the  owner  long  had  wore ; 

That  may  not  look  beyond  the  tub, 
And  cannot  hope  for  help  before. 

What  fellow  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be. 

The  blight  of  life,  —  the  ragged  Coat. 

Yet  others  wrapt  in  broadcloth  seem. 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake  ! 
0,  may  they  still  of  transport  dream. 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 

Through  many  a  clime  't  is  mine  to  go. 

With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 
And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whatever  I  wear,  I  've  worn  the  worst. 

What  is  the  worst  ?     Nay,  do  not  ask,  — 

In  pity  from  the  search  forbear : 
Smile  on,  —  nor  venture  to  unclasp 

My  Vest,  and  view  the  Shirt  that 's  there. 


TO    MAEY.* 


Well  !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  say 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too ; 

For  still  I  hate  to  go  away 
As  badly  as  I  used  to  do. 

Thy  husband  's  blest,  —  and  't  will  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot ; 

But  let  them  pass,  —  0,  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  clothed  thee  not ! 

*  Parodied  from  Byron's  "  Well !  Thou  art  Happy." 


470  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child, 

I  thought,  like  Dutchmen,  "  I  'd  go  dead," 

But  when  I  saw  its  breakfast  piled, 

I  thought  how  much  't  would  take  for  bread. 

I  saw  it  and  repressed  my  groans 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see. 
Because  I  knew  my  scanty  funds 

Were  scarce  enough  for  you  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu !  I  mu  st  away ; 

While  thou  art  blest,  to  grieve  were  sin, 
But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay. 

Because  I  'd  get  in  love  again. 

I  deemed  that  time,  I  deemed  that  pride, 
My  boyish  feeling  had  subdued, 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 
I  'd  try  to  get  you,  if  I  could. 

Yet  was  I  calm  :  I  recollect. 

My  hand  had  once  sought  yours  again, 

But  now  your  husband  might  object, 
And  so  I  kept  it  on  my  cane. 

I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face. 

Yet  meet  with  neither  woe  nor  scoff; 

One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace, 
A  disposition  to  be  off. 

Away  !  away,  my  early  dream, 
E/cmembrance  never  must  awake ; 

O,  where  is  Mississippi's  stream  ? 
My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break ! 


THE   CHANGE.* 

In  sunset's  light  o'er  Boston  thrown, 

A  young  man  proudly  stood 
Beside  a  girl,  the  only  one 

He  thought  was  fair  or  good ; 

*  Parodied  from  Mrs.  Hemans's  "  The  Traveller  at  the  Source  of  the  Nile." 


THE   CHANGE.  471 

The  one  on  whom  his  heart  was  set, 
The  one  he  tried  so  long  to  get. 

He  heard  his  wife's  first  loving  sound, 

A  low,  mysterious  tone, 
A  music  sought,  but  never  found, 

By  beaux  and  gallants  gone ; 
He  listened  and  his  heart  beat  high,  — 
That  was  the  song  of  victory  ! 

The  rapture  of  the  conqueror's  mood 

Rushed  burning  through  his  frame, 
And  all  the  folks  that  round  him  stood 

Its  torrents  could  not  tame, 
Though  stillness  lay  with  eve's  last  smile 
Round  Boston  Common  all  the  while. 

Years  came  with  care ;  across  his  life 

There  swept  a  sudden  change, 
E'en  with  the  one  he  called  his  wife, 

A  shadow  dark  and  strange. 
Breathed  from  the  thought  so  swift  to  fall 
O'er  triumph's  hour,  —  and  is  this  all  ? 

No,  more  than  this !  what  seemed  it  now 

Right  by  that  one  to  stand  ? 
A  thousand  girls  of  fairer  brow 

Walked  his  own  mountain  land; 
Whence,  far  o'er  matrimony's  track, 
Their  wild,  sweet  voices  called  him  back. 

They  called  him  back  to  many  a  glade 

Where  once  he  joyed  to  rove, 
Where  often  in  the  beechen  shade 

He  sat  and  talked  of  love ; 
They  called  him  with  their  mocking  sport 
Back  to  the  times  he  used  to  court. 

But,  darkly  mingling  with  the  thought 

Of  each  remembered  scene, 
Rose  up  a  fearful  vision,  fraught 

With  all  that  lay  between,  — 


472  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

His  wrinkled  face,  his  altered  lot, 

His  children's  wants,  the  wife  he  'd  got ! 

Where  was  the  value  of  that  bride 
He  likened  once  to  pearls  ? 

His  weary  heart  within  him  died 
With  yearning  for  the  girls,  — 

All  vainly  struggling  to  repress 

That  gush  of  painful  tenderness. 

He  wept ;  the  wife  that  made  his  bread 

Beheld  the  sad  reverse. 
Even  on  the  spot  where  he  had  said 

"For  better  or  for  worse." 
O  happiness  !  how  far  we  flee 
Thine  own  sweet  path  in  search  of  thee 


HE  NEVER  WEOTE  AGAIN.* 

His  hope  of  publishing  went  down, 

The  sweeping  press  rolled  on ; 
But  what  was  any  other  crown 

To  him  who  had  n't  one  ? 
He  lived,  —  for  long  may  man  bewail 

When  thus  he  writes  in  vain : 
Why  comes  not  death  to  those  who  fail :  — ■ 

He  never  wrote  again ! 

Books  were  put  out,  and  "  had  a  run," 

Like  coinage  from  the  mint ; 
But  which  could  fill  the  place  of  one, 

That  one  they  would  n't  print  ? 
Before  him  passed,  in  calf  and  sheep, 

The  thoughts  of  many  a  brain ; 
His  lay  with  the  rejected  heap  :  — 

He  never  wrote  again ! 

He  sat  where  men  who  wrote  went  round, 
And  heard  the  rhymes  they  built ; 

♦  Parodied  from  Mrs,  Heroans's  "  He  Never  Smiled  Again." 


THE   SOIREE.  473 

He  saw  their  works  most  riclily  bound, 

With  portraits  and  in  gilt. 
Dreams  of  a  volume  all  forgot 

Were  blent  in  every  strain  : 
A  thought  of  one  they  issued  not :  — 

He  never  wrote  again  ! 

Minds  in  that  time  closed,  o'er  the  trace 

Of  books  once  fondly  read, 
And  others  came  to  fill  their  place, 

And  were  perused  instead. 
Tales  which  young  girls  had  bathed  in  tears 

Back  on  the  shelves  were  lain : 
Fresh  ones  came  out  for  other  years :  — 

He  never  wrote  again  ! 


THE  SOIEEE.* 

This  is  the  Soiree :  from  grate  to  entrance, 
Like  milliner's  figures,  stand  the  lovely  girls ; 

But  from  their  silent  lips  no  merry  sentence 
Disturbs  the  smoothness  of  their  shining  curls. 

Ah  !  what  will  rise,  how  will  they  rally. 

When  shall  arrive  the  "gentlemen  of  ease"  ! 

What  brilliant  repartee,  what  witty  sally, 
Will  mingle  with  their  pleasant  symphonies ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  sweet  chorus. 

The  laugh  of  ecstasy,  the  merry  tone, 
That  through  the  evenings  that  have  gone  before  us 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

From  round-faced  Germans  come  the  guttural  voices, 
Through  curling  moustache  steals  the  Italian  clang, 

And,  loud  amidst  their  universal  noises, 

From  distant  corners  sounds  the  Yankee  twang. 

*  Parodied  from  Longfellow's  "  The  Arsenal  at  Springfield." 


474  POEMS  BY  PHOEBE   CARY. 

I  hear  the  editor,  who  from  his  office 

Sends  out  his  paper,  filled  with  praise  and  puff, 

And  holy  priests,  who,  when  they  warn  the  scoffers, 
Beat  the  fine  pulpit,  lined  with  velvet  stuff. 

The  tumult  of  each  saqued,  and  charming  maiden, 
The  idle  talk  that  sense  and  reason  drowns, 

The  ancient  dames  with  jewelry  o'erladen. 

And  trains  depending  from  the  brocade  gowns,  — 

The  pleasant  tone,  whose  sweetness  makes  us  wonder, 
The  laugh  of  gentlemen,  and  ladies  too, 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder. 
The  diapason  of  some  lady  blue,  — 

Is  it,  0  man,  with  such  discordant  noises. 

With  pastimes  so  ridiculous  as  these. 
Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 

And  j arrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  wealth  that  fills  the  world  with  ladies, 
Were  half  the  time  bestowed  on  caps  and  lace. 

Given  to  the  home,  the  husbands,  and  the  babies, 
There  were  no  time  to  visit  such  a  place. 


THE  CITY  LIFE  * 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  that  sphere  that  keeps 
The  country  youth  that  to  the  city  goes. 

When  all  of  thee,  that  change  can  wither,  sleeps 
And  perishes  among  your  cast-off  clothes  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain. 
If  there  I  meet  thy  one-horse  carriage  not ; 

Nor  see  the  hat  I  love,  nor  ride  again. 
When  thou  art  driving  on  a  gentle  trot. 

Wilt  thou  not  for  me  in  the  city  seek, 

And  turn  to  note  each  passing  shawl  and  gown  ? 
You  used  to  come  and  see  me  once  a  week,  — 

Shall  I  be  banished  from  your  thought  in  town  ? 

*  Parodied  from  Bryant's  "  The  Future  Life." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  SIR  JOHN  SMITH.      475 

In  that  great  street  I  don't  know  how  to  find, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  simple  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  country  training  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last. 
Shall  it  expire  in  town,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  greater  praise, 
Await  thee  there  ;  for  thou,  with  skill  and  tact, 

Hast  learnt  the  wisdom  of  the  world's  just  ways, 
And  dressest  well,  and  knowest  how  to  act. 

For  me,  the  country  place  in  which  I  dwell 
Has  made  me  one  of  a  proscribed  band; 

And  work  hath  left  its  scar  —  that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  hand. 

Yet  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  town, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name. 

The  same  black-satin  vest,  and  morning-gown. 
Lovelier  in  New  York  city,  yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  grander  home. 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this,  — 

The  wisdom  which  is  fine,  —  till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  place  of  bliss  ? 


THE   MARRIAGE   OF   SIR   JOHN   SMITH.* 

Not  a  sigh  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  tone. 
As  the  man  to  his  bridal  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  woman  discharged  her  farewell  groan. 
On  the  spot  where  the  fellow  was  married. 

We  married  him  just  about  eight  at  night. 

Our  faces  paler  turning, 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light. 

And  the  gas-lamp's  steady  burning. 

♦  Parodied  from  Wolfe's  "The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore." 


4T6  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE    CARY. 

No  useless  watch-chain  covered  his  vest, 

ISTor  over-dressed  we  found  him ; 
But  he  looked  like  a  gentleman  wearing  his  best, 

With  a  few  of  his  friends  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  things  we  said. 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow, 

But  we  silently  gazed  on  the  man  that  was  wed. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  silently  stood  about, 

With  spite  and  anger  dying, 
How  the  merest  stranger  had  cut  us  out. 

With  only  half  our  trying. 

Lightly  we  '11  talk  of  the  fellow  that  's  gone, 
And  oft  for  the  past  upbraid  him ; 

But  little  he  '11  reck  if  we  let  him  live  on. 
In  the  house  where  his  wife  conveyed  him. 

But  our  heavy  task  at  length  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  spiteful  squib  and  pun 
The  girls  were  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  turned  to  go,  — 
We  had  struggled,  and  we  were  human; 

We  shed  not  a  tear,  and  we  spoke  not  our  woe. 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  woman. 


BALLAD  OF  THE   CAKAL.* 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  had  room  to  sleep ; 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters. 
And  the  banks  were  very  steep. 

'T  is  a  fearful  thing  when  sleeping 
To  be  startled  by  the  shock, 

*  Parodied  from  James  T,  Fields'g  "  Tbe  Tempest." 


/  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER.  477 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Coming  to  a  lock  !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence, 

For  the  stoutest  berth  was  shook. 
While  the  wooden  gates  were  opened 

And  the  mate  talked  with  the  cook. 

As  thus  we  lay  in  darkness, 

Each  one  wishing  we  were  there, 
"We  are  through  !  "  the  captain  shouted, 

And  he  sat  down  on  a  chair. 

And  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

Thinking  that  he  ought  to  know, 
"  Is  n't  travelling  by  canal-boats 

Just  as  safe  as  it  is  slow  ?  " 

Then  he  kissed  the  little  maiden. 

And  with  better  cheer  we  spoke. 
And  we  trotted  into  Pittsburg 

When  the  morn  looked  through  the  smoke. 


I  REMEMBER,   I   REMEMBER  * 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

The  house  where  I  was  wed. 
And  the  little  room  from  which,  that  night. 

My  smiling  bride  was  led ; 
She  did  n't  come  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  make  too  long  a  stay ; 
But  now  I  often  wish  her  folks 

Had  kept  the  girl  away  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Her  dresses,  red  and  white, 
Her  bonnets  and  her  caps  and  cloaks,  — 

They  cost  an  awful  sight ! 

♦  Parodied  from  Hood's  lyric  of  the  same  title. 


478  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   GARY. 

The  "  corner  lot "  on  which  I  built, 
And  where  my  brother  met 

At  first  my  wife,  one  washing-day,  — 
That  man  is  single  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember. 

Where  I  was  used  to  court. 
And  thought  that  all  of  married  life 

Was  just  such  pleasant  sport : 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then. 

No  care  was  on  my  brow ; 
I  scarce  could  wait  to  shut  the  gate,  — 

I  'm  not  so  anxious  now ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

My  dear  one's  smile  and  sigh  ; 
I  used  to  think  her  tender  heart 

Was  close  against  the  sky ; 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance. 

But  now  it  soothes  me  not 
To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  she  was  n't  got ! 


JACOB* 


He  dwelt  among  "  apartments  let,'* 

About  five  stories  high ; 
A  man  I  thought  that  none  would  get, 

And  very  few  would  try. 

A  boulder,  by  a  larger  stone 

Half  hidden  in  the  mud. 
Fair  as  a  man  when  only  one 

Is  in  the  neighborhood. 

He  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  tell 

When  Jacob  was  not  free ; 
But  he  has  got  a  wife,  —  and  O  ! 

The  difference  to  me ! 

*  Parodied  from  Wordsworth's  "  Lucy." 


A   PSALM  OF  LIFE.  479 


THE   WIFE  * 

Her  washing  ended  with  the  day, 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  passed  the  long,  long  night  away, 

In  darning  ragged  hose. 

But  when  the  sun  in  all  his  state 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  passed  about  the  kitchen  grate, 

And  went  to  making  pies. 


A  PSALM  OF   LIFE.f 

WHAT    THE    HEART    OF    THE    YOUNG    WOMAN    SAID    TO    THE 

OLD    MAID. 

Tell  me  not,  in  idle  jingle. 

Marriage  is  an  empty  dream, 
For  the  girl  is  dead  that  's  single, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Married  life  is  real,  earnest ; 

Single  blessedness  a  fib; 
Taken  from  man,  to  man  returnest, 

Has  been  spoken  of  the  rib. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow. 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Nearer  brings  the  wedding-day. 

Life  is  long,  and  youth  is  fleeting. 
And  our  hearts,  if  there  we  search, 

Still  like  steady  drums  are  beating 
Anxious  marches  to  the  church. 

*  Parodied  from  James  Aldrich's  "  A  Death-Bed." 
t  Parodied  from  Longfellow's  *'  A  Psalm  of  Life." 


480  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  woman,  be  a  wife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present; 

Heart  within,  and  Man  ahead ! 

Lives  of  married  folks  remind  us 
We  can  live  our  lives  as  well. 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Such  examples  as  will  tell ;  — 

Such  examples,  that  another. 
Sailing  far  from  Hymen's  port, 

A  forlorn,  unmarried  brother. 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart,  and  court. 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing. 
With  the  heart  and  head  begin ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing. 
Learn  to  labor,  and  to  win ! 


THEEE  'S  A   BOWER  OF  BEAN-VINES  * 

ft 

There's  a  bower  of  bean-vines  in  Benjamin's  yard, 
And  the  cabbages  grow  round  it,  planted  for  greens ; 

In  the  time  of  my  childhood  't  was  terribly  hard 
To  bend  down  the  bean-poles,  and  pick  off  the  beans. 

That  bower  and  its  products  I  never  forget. 
But  oft,  when  my  landlady  presses  me  hard, 

I  think,  are  the  cabbages  growing  there  yet, 

Are  the  bean- vines  still  bearing  in  Benjamin's  yard  ? 

*  Parodied  from  a  songr  in  Moore's  "  Lalla  Rookh  "  :  "  There's  a  Bower  of  Roses 
by  Bendemeen's  Stream." 


SHAKESPERIAN  READINGS.  481 

No,  the  bean-vines  soon  withered  that  once  used  to  wave, 
But   some   beans   had    been    gathered,   the   last   that 
hung  on, 

And  a  soup  was  distilled  in  a  kettle,  that  gave 

All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  was  gone. 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 
An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  awfully  hard : 

And  thus  good  to  my  taste  as  't  was  then  to  my  eyes, 
Is  that  bower  of  bean- vines  in  Benjamin's  yard. 


WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN.* 

Whex  lovely  woman  wants  a  favor, 

And  finds,  too  late,  that  man  won't  bend, 

What  earthly  circumstance  can  save  her 
From  disappointment  in  the  end  ? 

The  only  way  to  bring  him  over. 

The  last  experiment  to  try. 
Whether  a  husband  or  a  lover. 

If  he  have  feeling,  is,  to  cry ! 


SHAKESPERIAN  EEADINGS.t 

Oh,  but  to  fade,  and  live  we  know  not  where, 

To  be  a  cold  obstruction  and  to  groan ! 

This  sensible,  warm  woman  to  become 

A  prudish  clod ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 

To  live  and  die  alone,  or  to  reside 

With  married  sisters,  and  to  have  the  care 

Of  half  a  dozen  children,  not  your  own ; 

And  driven,  for  no  one  wants  you. 

Round  about  the  pendant  world ;  or  worse  than  worst 

*  Parodied  from  Goldsmith's  stanzas  of  the  same  title. 

t  The  first  is  parodied  from  "  Measure  for  Measure,"  III.  1,  116-131  ;  the  second 
from  "A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  II.  1,  152-101  ;  the  third  from  "Twelfth 
Night,"  II.  4,  lOT-115. 


482  POEMS  BY  PHCEBE   CARY. 

Of  those  that  disappointment  and  pure  spite 
Have  driven  to  madness  :  'T  is  too  horrible  ! 
The  weariest  and  most  troubled  married  life 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  or  jealousy 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  being  an  old  maid. 


That  very  time  I  saw,  (but  thou  couldst  not,) 
Walking  between  the  garden  and  the  barn, 
Reuben,  all  armed  ;  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  young  chicken  standing  by  a  post, 
And  loosed  his  bullet  smartly  from  his  gun, 
As  he  would  kill  a  hundred  thousand  hens. 
But  I  might  see  young  Reuben's  fiery  shot 
Lodged  in  the  chaste  board  of  the  garden  fence. 
And  the  domesticated  fowl  passed  on, 
In  henly  meditation,  bullet  free. 


My  father  had  a  daughter  got  a  man, 

As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  good-looking, 

I  should,  your  lordship. 

And  what 's  her  residence  ? 

A  hut,  my  lord,  she  never  owned  a  house. 

But  let  her  husband,  like  a  graceless  scamp. 

Spend  all  her  little  means, —  she  thought  she  ought, 

And  in  a  wretched  chamber,  on  an  alley. 

She  worked  like  masons  on  a  monument, 

Earning  their  bread.     Was  not  this  love  indeed  ? 


n  / /di^  It^ y 


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